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Don Quixote
by Miguel de Cervantes
Translated by John Ormsby
Ebook Editor’s Note
The book cover and spine above and the images which follow were not
part of the original Ormsby translation—they are taken from the 1880
edition of J. W. Clark, illustrated by Gustave Doré. Clark in his
edition states that, “The English text of ‘Don Quixote’ adopted in this
edition is that of Jarvis, with occasional corrections from Motteaux.”
See in the introduction below John Ormsby’s critique of both the Jarvis
and Motteaux translations. It has been elected in the present Project
Gutenberg edition to attach the famous engravings of Gustave Doré to
the Ormsby translation instead of the Jarvis/Motteaux. The detail of
many of the Doré engravings can be fully appreciated only by utilizing
the “Full Size” button to expand them to their original dimensions.
Ormsby in his Preface has criticized the fanciful nature of Doré’s
illustrations; others feel these woodcuts and steel engravings well
match Quixote’s dreams. D.W.
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CONTENTS VOLUME I
INTRODUCTION
PREFARATORY
CERVANTES
‘DON QUIXOTE’
THE AUTHOR’S PREFACE
COMMENDATORY VERSES
CHAPTER I WHICH TREATS OF THE CHARACTER AND
PURSUITS OF THE FAMOUS GENTLEMAN DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA
CHAPTER II WHICH TREATS OF THE FIRST SALLY THE INGENIOUS
DON QUIXOTE MADE FROM HOME
CHAPTER III
WHEREIN IS RELATED THE DROLL WAY IN WHICH DON QUIXOTE HAD HIMSELF DUBBED A
KNIGHT
CHAPTER IV OF WHAT HAPPENED TO OUR
KNIGHT WHEN HE LEFT THE INN
CHAPTER V IN
WHICH THE NARRATIVE OF OUR KNIGHT’S MISHAP IS CONTINUED
CHAPTER VI OF THE DIVERTING AND IMPORTANT SCRUTINY WHICH
THE CURATE AND THE BARBER MADE IN THE LIBRARY OF OUR INGENIOUS GENTLEMAN
CHAPTER VII OF THE SECOND SALLY OF OUR WORTHY
KNIGHT DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA
CHAPTER VIII
OF THE GOOD FORTUNE WHICH THE VALIANT DON QUIXOTE HAD IN THE TERRIBLE AND
UNDREAMT-OF ADVENTURE OF THE WINDMILLS, WITH OTHER OCCURRENCES WORTHY TO
BE FITLY RECORDED
CHAPTER IX IN WHICH IS
CONCLUDED AND FINISHED THE TERRIFIC BATTLE BETWEEN THE GALLANT BISCAYAN
AND THE VALIANT MANCHEGAN
CHAPTER X OF THE
PLEASANT DISCOURSE THAT PASSED BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE AND HIS SQUIRE SANCHO
PANZA
CHAPTER XI OF WHAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE
WITH CERTAIN GOATHERDS
CHAPTER XII OF WHAT A
GOATHERD RELATED TO THOSE WITH DON QUIXOTE
CHAPTER
XIII IN WHICH IS ENDED THE STORY OF THE SHEPHERDESS MARCELA, WITH
OTHER INCIDENTS
CHAPTER XIV WHEREIN ARE
INSERTED THE DESPAIRING VERSES OF THE DEAD SHEPHERD, TOGETHER WITH OTHER
INCIDENTS NOT LOOKED FOR
CHAPTER XV IN WHICH
IS RELATED THE UNFORTUNATE ADVENTURE THAT DON QUIXOTE FELL IN WITH WHEN HE
FELL OUT WITH CERTAIN HEARTLESS YANGUESANS
CHAPTER
XVI OF WHAT HAPPENED TO THE INGENIOUS GENTLEMAN IN THE INN WHICH HE
TOOK TO BE A CASTLE
CHAPTER XVII IN WHICH
ARE CONTAINED THE INNUMERABLE TROUBLES WHICH THE BRAVE DON QUIXOTE AND HIS
GOOD SQUIRE SANCHO PANZA ENDURED IN THE INN, WHICH TO HIS MISFORTUNE HE
TOOK TO BE A CASTLE
CHAPTER XVIII IN WHICH
IS RELATED THE DISCOURSE SANCHO PANZA HELD WITH HIS MASTER, DON QUIXOTE,
AND OTHER ADVENTURES WORTH RELATING
CHAPTER XIX
OF THE SHREWD DISCOURSE WHICH SANCHO HELD WITH HIS MASTER, AND OF THE
ADVENTURE THAT BEFELL HIM WITH A DEAD BODY, TOGETHER WITH OTHER NOTABLE
OCCURRENCES
CHAPTER XX OF THE UNEXAMPLED AND
UNHEARD-OF ADVENTURE WHICH WAS ACHIEVED BY THE VALIANT DON QUIXOTE OF LA
MANCHA WITH LESS PERIL THAN ANY EVER ACHIEVED BY ANY FAMOUS KNIGHT IN THE
WORLD
CHAPTER XXI WHICH TREATS OF THE
EXALTED ADVENTURE AND RICH PRIZE OF MAMBRINO’S HELMET, TOGETHER WITH OTHER
THINGS THAT HAPPENED TO OUR INVINCIBLE KNIGHT
CHAPTER
XXII OF THE FREEDOM DON QUIXOTE CONFERRED ON SEVERAL UNFORTUNATES WHO
AGAINST THEIR WILL WERE BEING CARRIED WHERE THEY HAD NO WISH TO GO
CHAPTER XXIII OF WHAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE IN THE SIERRA
MORENA, WHICH WAS ONE OF THE RAREST ADVENTURES RELATED IN THIS VERACIOUS
HISTORY
CHAPTER XXIV IN WHICH IS CONTINUED
THE ADVENTURE OF THE SIERRA MORENA
CHAPTER XXV
WHICH TREATS OF THE STRANGE THINGS THAT HAPPENED TO THE STOUT KNIGHT OF LA
MANCHA IN THE SIERRA MORENA, AND OF HIS IMITATION OF THE PENANCE OF
BELTENEBROS
CHAPTER XXVI IN WHICH ARE
CONTINUED THE REFINEMENTS WHEREWITH DON QUIXOTE PLAYED THE PART OF A LOVER
IN THE SIERRA MORENA
CHAPTER XXVII OF HOW
THE CURATE AND THE BARBER PROCEEDED WITH THEIR SCHEME; TOGETHER WITH OTHER
MATTERS WORTHY OF RECORD IN THIS GREAT HISTORY
CHAPTER
XXVIII WHICH TREATS OF THE STRANGE AND DELIGHTFUL ADVENTURE THAT
BEFELL THE CURATE AND THE BARBER IN THE SAME SIERRA
CHAPTER XXIX WHICH TREATS OF THE DROLL DEVICE AND METHOD
ADOPTED TO EXTRICATE OUR LOVE-STRICKEN KNIGHT FROM THE SEVERE PENANCE HE
HAD IMPOSED UPON HIMSELF
CHAPTER XXX WHICH
TREATS OF ADDRESS DISPLAYED BY THE FAIR DOROTHEA, WITH OTHER MATTERS
PLEASANT AND AMUSING
CHAPTER XXXI OF THE
DELECTABLE DISCUSSION BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE AND SANCHO PANZA, HIS SQUIRE,
TOGETHER WITH OTHER INCIDENTS
CHAPTER XXXII
WHICH TREATS OF WHAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE’S PARTY AT THE INN
CHAPTER XXXIII IN WHICH IS RELATED THE NOVEL OF “THE
ILL-ADVISED CURIOSITY”
CHAPTER XXXIV IN
WHICH IS CONTINUED THE NOVEL OF “THE ILL-ADVISED CURIOSITY”
CHAPTER XXXV WHICH TREATS OF THE HEROIC AND PRODIGIOUS
BATTLE DON QUIXOTE HAD WITH CERTAIN SKINS OF RED WINE, AND BRINGS THE
NOVEL OF “THE ILL-ADVISED CURIOSITY” TO A CLOSE
CHAPTER
XXXVI WHICH TREATS OF MORE CURIOUS INCIDENTS THAT OCCURRED AT THE INN
CHAPTER XXXVII IN WHICH IS CONTINUED THE
STORY OF THE FAMOUS PRINCESS MICOMICONA, WITH OTHER DROLL ADVENTURES
CHAPTER XXXVIII WHICH TREATS OF THE CURIOUS DISCOURSE DON
QUIXOTE DELIVERED ON ARMS AND LETTERS
CHAPTER
XXXIX WHEREIN THE CAPTIVE RELATES HIS LIFE AND ADVENTURES
CHAPTER XL IN WHICH THE STORY OF THE CAPTIVE IS CONTINUED
CHAPTER XLI IN WHICH THE CAPTIVE STILL
CONTINUES HIS ADVENTURES
CHAPTER XLII WHICH
TREATS OF WHAT FURTHER TOOK PLACE IN THE INN, AND OF SEVERAL OTHER THINGS
WORTH KNOWING
CHAPTER XLIII WHEREIN IS
RELATED THE PLEASANT STORY OF THE MULETEER, TOGETHER WITH OTHER STRANGE
THINGS THAT CAME TO PASS IN THE INN
CHAPTER XLIV
IN WHICH ARE CONTINUED THE UNHEARD-OF ADVENTURES OF THE INN
CHAPTER XLV IN WHICH THE DOUBTFUL QUESTION OF MAMBRINO’S
HELMET AND THE PACK-SADDLE IS FINALLY SETTLED, WITH OTHER ADVENTURES THAT
OCCURRED IN TRUTH AND EARNEST
CHAPTER XLVI
OF THE END OF THE NOTABLE ADVENTURE OF THE OFFICERS OF THE HOLY
BROTHERHOOD; AND OF THE GREAT FEROCITY OF OUR WORTHY KNIGHT, DON QUIXOTE
CHAPTER XLVII OF THE STRANGE MANNER IN WHICH
DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA WAS CARRIED AWAY ENCHANTED, TOGETHER WITH OTHER
REMARKABLE INCIDENTS
CHAPTER XLVIII IN WHICH
THE CANON PURSUES THE SUBJECT OF THE BOOKS OF CHIVALRY, WITH OTHER MATTERS
WORTHY OF HIS WIT
CHAPTER XLIX WHICH TREATS
OF THE SHREWD CONVERSATION WHICH SANCHO PANZA HELD WITH HIS MASTER DON
QUIXOTE
CHAPTER L OF THE SHREWD CONTROVERSY
WHICH DON QUIXOTE AND THE CANON HELD, TOGETHER WITH OTHER INCIDENTS
CHAPTER LI WHICH DEALS WITH WHAT THE GOATHERD TOLD THOSE
WHO WERE CARRYING OFF DON QUIXOTE
CHAPTER LII
OF THE QUARREL THAT DON QUIXOTE HAD WITH THE GOATHERD, TOGETHER WITH THE
RARE ADVENTURE OF THE PENITENTS, WHICH WITH AN EXPENDITURE OF SWEAT HE
BROUGHT TO A HAPPY CONCLUSION
CONTENTS VOLUME II
CHAPTER I OF THE INTERVIEW THE CURATE AND
THE BARBER HAD WITH DON QUIXOTE ABOUT HIS MALADY
CHAPTER
II WHICH TREATS OF THE NOTABLE ALTERCATION WHICH SANCHO PANZA HAD WITH
DON QUIXOTE’S NIECE, AND HOUSEKEEPER, TOGETHER WITH OTHER
DROLLMATTERS
CHAPTER III OF THE LAUGHABLE
CONVERSATION THAT PASSED BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE, SANCHO PANZA, AND THE
BACHELOR SAMSON CARRASCO
CHAPTER IV IN WHICH
SANCHO PANZA GIVES A SATISFACTORY REPLY TO THE DOUBTS AND QUESTIONS OF THE
BACHELOR SAMSON CARRASCO, TOGETHER WITH OTHER MATTERS WORTH KNOWING AND
TELLING
CHAPTER V OF THE SHREWD AND DROLL
CONVERSATION THAT PASSED BETWEEN SANCHO PANZA AND HIS WIFE TERESA PANZA,
AND OTHER MATTERS WORTHY OF BEING DULY RECORDED
CHAPTER
VI OF WHAT TOOK PLACE BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE AND HIS NIECE AND
HOUSEKEEPER; ONE OF THE MOST IMPORTANT CHAPTERS IN THE WHOLE HISTORY
CHAPTER VII OF WHAT PASSED BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE AND HIS
SQUIRE, TOGETHER WITH OTHER VERY NOTABLE INCIDENTS
CHAPTER VIII WHEREIN IS RELATED WHAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE
ON HIS WAY TO SEE HIS LADY DULCINEA DEL TOBOSO
CHAPTER
IX WHEREIN IS RELATED WHAT WILL BE SEEN THERE
CHAPTER X WHEREIN IS RELATED THE CRAFTY DEVICE SANCHO
ADOPTED TO ENCHANT THE LADY DULCINEA, AND OTHER INCIDENTS AS LUDICROUS AS
THEY ARE TRUE
CHAPTER XI OF THE STRANGE
ADVENTURE WHICH THE VALIANT DON QUIXOTE HAD WITH THE CAR OR CART OF
“THE CORTES OF DEATH”
CHAPTER XII
OF THE STRANGE ADVENTURE WHICH BEFELL THE VALIANT DON QUIXOTE WITH THE
BOLD KNIGHT OF THE MIRRORS
CHAPTER XIII IN
WHICH IS CONTINUED THE ADVENTURE OF THE KNIGHT OF THE GROVE, TOGETHER WITH
THE SENSIBLE, ORIGINAL, AND TRANQUIL COLLOQUY THAT PASSED BETWEEN THE TWO
SQUIRES
CHAPTER XIV WHEREIN IS CONTINUED
THE ADVENTURE OF THE KNIGHT OF THE GROVE
CHAPTER
XV WHEREIN IT IS TOLD AND KNOWN WHO THE KNIGHT OF THE MIRRORS AND HIS
SQUIRE WERE
CHAPTER XVI OF WHAT BEFELL DON
QUIXOTE WITH A DISCREET GENTLEMAN OF LA MANCHA
CHAPTER
XVII WHEREIN IS SHOWN THE FURTHEST AND HIGHEST POINT WHICH THE
UNEXAMPLEDCOURAGE OF DON QUIXOTE REACHED OR COULD REACH; TOGETHER WITH THE
HAPPILY ACHIEVED ADVENTURE OF THE LIONS
CHAPTER
XVIII OF WHAT HAPPENED DON QUIXOTE IN THE CASTLE OR HOUSE OF THE
KNIGHT OF THE GREEN GABAN, TOGETHER WITH OTHER MATTERS OUT OF THE COMMON
CHAPTER XIX IN WHICH IS RELATED THE
ADVENTURE OF THE ENAMOURED SHEPHERD, TOGETHER WITH OTHER TRULY DROLL
INCIDENTS
CHAPTER XX WHEREIN AN ACCOUNT IS
GIVEN OF THE WEDDING OF CAMACHO THE RICH, TOGETHER WITH THE INCIDENT OF
BASILIO THE POOR
CHAPTER XXI IN WHICH
CAMACHO’S WEDDING IS CONTINUED, WITH OTHER DELIGHTFUL INCIDENTS
CHAPTER XXII WHEREIN IS RELATED THE GRAND
ADVENTURE OF THE CAVE OF MONTESINOS IN THE HEART OF LA MANCHA, WHICH THE
VALIANT DON QUIXOTE BROUGHT TO A HAPPY TERMINATION
CHAPTER XXIII OF THE WONDERFUL THINGS THE INCOMPARABLE
DON QUIXOTE SAID HE SAW IN THE PROFOUND CAVE OF MONTESINOS, THE
IMPOSSIBILITY AND MAGNITUDE OF WHICH CAUSE THIS ADVENTURE TO BE DEEMED
APOCRYPHAL
CHAPTER XXIV WHEREIN ARE RELATED
A THOUSAND TRIFLING MATTERS, AS TRIVIAL AS THEY ARE NECESSARY TO THE RIGHT
UNDERSTANDING OF THIS GREAT HISTORY
CHAPTER XXV
WHEREIN IS SET DOWN THE BRAYING ADVENTURE, AND THE DROLL ONE OF THE
PUPPET-SHOWMAN, TOGETHER WITH THE MEMORABLE DIVINATIONS OF THE DIVINING
APE
CHAPTER XXVI WHEREIN IS CONTINUED THE
DROLL ADVENTURE OF THE PUPPET-SHOWMAN, TOGETHER WITH OTHER THINGS IN TRUTH
RIGHT GOOD
CHAPTER XXVII WHEREIN IT IS
SHOWN WHO MASTER PEDRO AND HIS APE WERE, TOGETHER WITH THE MISHAP DON
QUIXOTE HAD IN THE BRAYING ADVENTURE, WHICH HE DID NOT CONCLUDE AS HE
WOULD HAVE LIKED OR AS HE HAD EXPECTED
CHAPTER
XXVIII OF MATTERS THAT BENENGELI SAYS HE WHO READS THEM WILL KNOW, IF
HE READS THEM WITH ATTENTION
CHAPTER XXIX
OF THE FAMOUS ADVENTURE OF THE ENCHANTED BARK
CHAPTER
XXX OF DON QUIXOTE’S ADVENTURE WITH A FAIR HUNTRESS
CHAPTER XXXI WHICH TREATS OF MANY AND GREAT MATTERS
CHAPTER XXXII OF THE REPLY DON QUIXOTE GAVE
HIS CENSURER, WITH OTHER INCIDENTS, GRAVE AND DROLL
CHAPTER XXXIII OF THE DELECTABLE DISCOURSE WHICH THE
DUCHESS AND HER DAMSELS HELD WITH SANCHO PANZA, WELL WORTH READING AND
NOTING
CHAPTER XXXIV WHICH RELATES HOW THEY
LEARNED THE WAY IN WHICH THEY WERE TO DISENCHANT THE PEERLESS DULCINEA DEL
TOBOSO, WHICH IS ONE OF THE RAREST ADVENTURES IN THIS BOOK
CHAPTER XXXV WHEREIN IS CONTINUED THE INSTRUCTION GIVEN
TO DON QUIXOTE TOUCHING THE DISENCHANTMENT OF DULCINEA, TOGETHER WITH
OTHER MARVELLOUS INCIDENTS
CHAPTER XXXVI
WHEREIN IS RELATED THE STRANGE AND UNDREAMT-OF ADVENTURE OF THE DISTRESSED
DUENNA, ALIAS THE COUNTESS TRIFALDI, TOGETHER WITH A LETTER WHICH SANCHO
PANZA WROTE TO HIS WIFE, TERESA PANZA
CHAPTER
XXXVII WHEREIN IS CONTINUED THE NOTABLE ADVENTURE OF THE DISTRESSED
DUENNA
CHAPTER XXXVIII WHEREIN IS TOLD THE
DISTRESSED DUENNA’S TALE OF HER MISFORTUNES
CHAPTER XXXIX IN WHICH THE TRIFALDI CONTINUES HER
MARVELLOUS AND MEMORABLE STORY
CHAPTER XL
OF MATTERS RELATING AND BELONGING TO THIS ADVENTURE AND TO THIS MEMORABLE
HISTORY
CHAPTER XLI OF THE ARRIVAL OF
CLAVILEÑO AND THE END OF THIS PROTRACTED ADVENTURE
CHAPTER XLII OF THE COUNSELS WHICH DON QUIXOTE GAVE
SANCHO PANZA BEFORE HE SET OUT TO GOVERN THE ISLAND, TOGETHER WITH OTHER
WELL-CONSIDERED MATTERS
CHAPTER XLIII OF
THE SECOND SET OF COUNSELS DON QUIXOTE GAVE SANCHO PANZA
CHAPTER XLIV HOW SANCHO PANZA WAS CONDUCTED TO HIS
GOVERNMENT, AND OF THE STRANGE ADVENTURE THAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE IN THE
CASTLE
CHAPTER XLV OF HOW THE GREAT SANCHO
PANZA TOOK POSSESSION OF HIS ISLAND, AND OF HOW HE MADE A BEGINNING IN
GOVERNING
CHAPTER XLVI OF THE TERRIBLE BELL
AND CAT FRIGHT THAT DON QUIXOTE GOT IN THE COURSE OF THE ENAMOURED
ALTISIDORA’S WOOING
CHAPTER XLVII
WHEREIN IS CONTINUED THE ACCOUNT OF HOW SANCHO PANZA CONDUCTED HIMSELF IN
HIS GOVERNMENT
CHAPTER XLVIII OF WHAT
BEFELL DON QUIXOTE WITH DOÑA RODRIGUEZ, THE DUCHESS’S DUENNA,
TOGETHER WITH OTHER OCCURRENCES WORTHY OF RECORD AND ETERNAL REMEMBRANCE
CHAPTER XLIX OF WHAT HAPPENED SANCHO IN
MAKING THE ROUND OF HIS ISLAND
CHAPTER L
WHEREIN IS SET FORTH WHO THE ENCHANTERS AND EXECUTIONERS WERE WHO FLOGGED
THE DUENNA AND PINCHED DON QUIXOTE, AND ALSO WHAT BEFELL THE PAGE WHO
CARRIED THE LETTER TO TERESA PANZA, SANCHO PANZA’S WIFE
CHAPTER LI OF THE PROGRESS OF SANCHO’S GOVERNMENT,
AND OTHER SUCH ENTERTAINING MATTERS
CHAPTER LII
WHEREIN IS RELATED THE ADVENTURE OF THE SECOND DISTRESSED OR AFFLICTED
DUENNA, OTHERWISE CALLED DOÑA RODRIGUEZ
CHAPTER
LIII OF THE TROUBLOUS END AND TERMINATION SANCHO PANZA’S
GOVERNMENT CAME TO
CHAPTER LIV WHICH DEALS
WITH MATTERS RELATING TO THIS HISTORY AND NO OTHER
CHAPTER LV OF WHAT BEFELL SANCHO ON THE ROAD, AND OTHER
THINGS THAT CANNOT BE SURPASSED
CHAPTER LVI
OF THE PRODIGIOUS AND UNPARALLELED BATTLE THAT TOOK PLACE BETWEEN DON
QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA AND THE LACQUEY TOSILOS IN DEFENCE OF THE DAUGHTER OF
DOÑA RODRIGUEZ
CHAPTER LVII WHICH TREATS OF
HOW DON QUIXOTE TOOK LEAVE OF THE DUKE, AND OF WHAT FOLLOWED WITH THE
WITTY AND IMPUDENT ALTISIDORA, ONE OF THE DUCHESS’S DAMSELS
CHAPTER LVIII WHICH TELLS HOW ADVENTURES CAME CROWDING
ON DON QUIXOTE IN SUCH NUMBERS THAT THEY GAVE ONE ANOTHER NO
BREATHING-TIME
CHAPTER LIX WHEREIN IS
RELATED THE STRANGE THING, WHICH MAY BE REGARDED AS AN ADVENTURE, THAT
HAPPENED DON QUIXOTE
CHAPTER LX OF WHAT
HAPPENED DON QUIXOTE ON HIS WAY TO BARCELONA
CHAPTER
LXI OF WHAT HAPPENED DON QUIXOTE ON ENTERING BARCELONA, TOGETHER WITH
OTHER MATTERS THAT PARTAKE OF THE TRUE RATHER THAN OF THE INGENIOUS
CHAPTER LXII WHICH DEALS WITH THE ADVENTURE OF THE
ENCHANTED HEAD, TOGETHER WITH OTHER TRIVIAL MATTERS WHICH CANNOT BE LEFT
UNTOLD
CHAPTER LXIII OF THE MISHAP THAT
BEFELL SANCHO PANZA THROUGH THE VISIT TO THE GALLEYS, AND THE STRANGE
ADVENTURE OF THE FAIR MORISCO
CHAPTER LXIV
TREATING OF THE ADVENTURE WHICH GAVE DON QUIXOTE MORE UNHAPPINESS THAN ALL
THAT HAD HITHERTO BEFALLEN HIM
CHAPTER LXV
WHEREIN IS MADE KNOWN WHO THE KNIGHT OF THE WHITE MOON WAS; LIKEWISE DON
GREGORIO’S RELEASE, AND OTHER EVENTS
CHAPTER
LXVI WHICH TREATS OF WHAT HE WHO READS WILL SEE, OR WHAT HE WHO HAS IT
READ TO HIM WILL HEAR
CHAPTER LXVII OF THE
RESOLUTION DON QUIXOTE FORMED TO TURN SHEPHERD AND TAKE TO A LIFE IN THE
FIELDS WHILE THE YEAR FOR WHICH HE HAD GIVEN HIS WORD WAS RUNNING ITS
COURSE; WITH OTHER EVENTS TRULY DELECTABLE AND HAPPY
CHAPTER LXVIII OF THE BRISTLY ADVENTURE THAT BEFELL DON
QUIXOTE
CHAPTER LXIX OF THE STRANGEST AND
MOST EXTRAORDINARY ADVENTURE THAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE IN THE WHOLE COURSE
OF THIS GREAT HISTORY
CHAPTER LXX WHICH
FOLLOWS SIXTY-NINE AND DEALS WITH MATTERS INDISPENSABLE FOR THE CLEAR
COMPREHENSION OF THIS HISTORY
CHAPTER LXXI
OF WHAT PASSED BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE AND HIS SQUIRE SANCHO ON THE WAY TO
THEIR VILLAGE
CHAPTER LXXII OF HOW DON
QUIXOTE AND SANCHO REACHED THEIR VILLAGE
CHAPTER
LXXIII OF THE OMENS DON QUIXOTE HAD AS HE ENTERED HIS OWN VILLAGE, AND
OTHER INCIDENTS THAT EMBELLISH AND GIVE A COLOUR TO THIS GREAT HISTORY
CHAPTER LXXIV OF HOW DON QUIXOTE FELL SICK,
AND OF THE WILL HE MADE, AND HOW HE DIED
INTRODUCTION
PREFARATORY
It was with considerable reluctance that I abandoned in favour of the
present undertaking what had long been a favourite project: that of a
new edition of Shelton’s “Don Quixote,” which has now become a somewhat
scarce book. There are some—and I confess myself to be one—for whom
Shelton’s racy old version, with all its defects, has a charm that no
modern translation, however skilful or correct, could possess. Shelton
had the inestimable advantage of belonging to the same generation as
Cervantes; “Don Quixote” had to him a vitality that only a contemporary
could feel; it cost him no dramatic effort to see things as Cervantes
saw them; there is no anachronism in his language; he put the Spanish
of Cervantes into the English of Shakespeare. Shakespeare himself most
likely knew the book; he may have carried it home with him in his
saddle-bags to Stratford on one of his last journeys, and under the
mulberry tree at New Place joined hands with a kindred genius in its
pages.
But it was soon made plain to me that to hope for even a moderate
popularity for Shelton was vain. His fine old crusted English would, no
doubt, be relished by a minority, but it would be only by a minority.
His warmest admirers must admit that he is not a satisfactory
representative of Cervantes. His translation of the First Part was very
hastily made and was never revised by him. It has all the freshness and
vigour, but also a full measure of the faults, of a hasty production.
It is often very literal—barbarously literal frequently—but just as
often very loose. He had evidently a good colloquial knowledge of
Spanish, but apparently not much more. It never seems to occur to him
that the same translation of a word will not suit in every case.
It is often said that we have no satisfactory translation of “Don
Quixote.” To those who are familiar with the original, it savours of
truism or platitude to say so, for in truth there can be no thoroughly
satisfactory translation of “Don Quixote” into English or any other
language. It is not that the Spanish idioms are so utterly
unmanageable, or that the untranslatable words, numerous enough no
doubt, are so superabundant, but rather that the sententious terseness
to which the humour of the book owes its flavour is peculiar to
Spanish, and can at best be only distantly imitated in any other
tongue.
The history of our English translations of “Don Quixote” is
instructive. Shelton’s, the first in any language, was made,
apparently, about 1608, but not published till 1612. This of course was
only the First Part. It has been asserted that the Second, published in
1620, is not the work of Shelton, but there is nothing to support the
assertion save the fact that it has less spirit, less of what we
generally understand by “go,” about it than the first, which would be
only natural if the first were the work of a young man writing
_currente calamo_, and the second that of a middle-aged man writing for
a bookseller. On the other hand, it is closer and more literal, the
style is the same, the very same translations, or mistranslations,
occur in it, and it is extremely unlikely that a new translator would,
by suppressing his name, have allowed Shelton to carry off the credit.
In 1687 John Phillips, Milton’s nephew, produced a “Don Quixote” “made
English,” he says, “according to the humour of our modern language.”
His “Quixote” is not so much a translation as a travesty, and a
travesty that for coarseness, vulgarity, and buffoonery is almost
unexampled even in the literature of that day.
Ned Ward’s “Life and Notable Adventures of Don Quixote, merrily
translated into Hudibrastic Verse” (1700), can scarcely be reckoned a
translation, but it serves to show the light in which “Don Quixote” was
regarded at the time.
A further illustration may be found in the version published in 1712 by
Peter Motteux, who had then recently combined tea-dealing with
literature. It is described as “translated from the original by several
hands,” but if so all Spanish flavour has entirely evaporated under the
manipulation of the several hands. The flavour that it has, on the
other hand, is distinctly Franco-cockney. Anyone who compares it
carefully with the original will have little doubt that it is a
concoction from Shelton and the French of Filleau de Saint Martin, eked
out by borrowings from Phillips, whose mode of treatment it adopts. It
is, to be sure, more decent and decorous, but it treats “Don Quixote”
in the same fashion as a comic book that cannot be made too comic.
To attempt to improve the humour of “Don Quixote” by an infusion of
cockney flippancy and facetiousness, as Motteux’s operators did, is not
merely an impertinence like larding a sirloin of prize beef, but an
absolute falsification of the spirit of the book, and it is a proof of
the uncritical way in which “Don Quixote” is generally read that this
worse than worthless translation—worthless as failing to represent,
worse than worthless as misrepresenting—should have been favoured as it
has been.
It had the effect, however, of bringing out a translation undertaken
and executed in a very different spirit, that of Charles Jervas, the
portrait painter, and friend of Pope, Swift, Arbuthnot, and Gay. Jervas
has been allowed little credit for his work, indeed it may be said
none, for it is known to the world in general as Jarvis’s. It was not
published until after his death, and the printers gave the name
according to the current pronunciation of the day. It has been the most
freely used and the most freely abused of all the translations. It has
seen far more editions than any other, it is admitted on all hands to
be by far the most faithful, and yet nobody seems to have a good word
to say for it or for its author. Jervas no doubt prejudiced readers
against himself in his preface, where among many true words about
Shelton, Stevens, and Motteux, he rashly and unjustly charges Shelton
with having translated not from the Spanish, but from the Italian
version of Franciosini, which did not appear until ten years after
Shelton’s first volume. A suspicion of incompetence, too, seems to have
attached to him because he was by profession a painter and a mediocre
one (though he has given us the best portrait we have of Swift), and
this may have been strengthened by Pope’s remark that he “translated
‘Don Quixote’ without understanding Spanish.” He has been also charged
with borrowing from Shelton, whom he disparaged. It is true that in a
few difficult or obscure passages he has followed Shelton, and gone
astray with him; but for one case of this sort, there are fifty where
he is right and Shelton wrong. As for Pope’s dictum, anyone who
examines Jervas’s version carefully, side by side with the original,
will see that he was a sound Spanish scholar, incomparably a better one
than Shelton, except perhaps in mere colloquial Spanish. He was, in
fact, an honest, faithful, and painstaking translator, and he has left
a version which, whatever its shortcomings may be, is singularly free
from errors and mistranslations.
The charge against it is that it is stiff, dry—“wooden” in a word,—and
no one can deny that there is a foundation for it. But it may be
pleaded for Jervas that a good deal of this rigidity is due to his
abhorrence of the light, flippant, jocose style of his predecessors. He
was one of the few, very few, translators that have shown any
apprehension of the unsmiling gravity which is the essence of Quixotic
humour; it seemed to him a crime to bring Cervantes forward smirking
and grinning at his own good things, and to this may be attributed in a
great measure the ascetic abstinence from everything savouring of
liveliness which is the characteristic of his translation. In most
modern editions, it should be observed, his style has been smoothed and
smartened, but without any reference to the original Spanish, so that
if he has been made to read more agreeably he has also been robbed of
his chief merit of fidelity.
Smollett’s version, published in 1755, may be almost counted as one of
these. At any rate it is plain that in its construction Jervas’s
translation was very freely drawn upon, and very little or probably no
heed given to the original Spanish.
The later translations may be dismissed in a few words. George Kelly’s,
which appeared in 1769, “printed for the Translator,” was an impudent
imposture, being nothing more than Motteux’s version with a few of the
words, here and there, artfully transposed; Charles Wilmot’s (1774) was
only an abridgment like Florian’s, but not so skilfully executed; and
the version published by Miss Smirke in 1818, to accompany her
brother’s plates, was merely a patchwork production made out of former
translations. On the latest, Mr. A. J. Duffield’s, it would be in every
sense of the word impertinent in me to offer an opinion here. I had not
even seen it when the present undertaking was proposed to me, and since
then I may say vidi tantum, having for obvious reasons resisted the
temptation which Mr. Duffield’s reputation and comely volumes hold out
to every lover of Cervantes.
From the foregoing history of our translations of “Don Quixote,” it
will be seen that there are a good many people who, provided they get
the mere narrative with its full complement of facts, incidents, and
adventures served up to them in a form that amuses them, care very
little whether that form is the one in which Cervantes originally
shaped his ideas. On the other hand, it is clear that there are many
who desire to have not merely the story he tells, but the story as he
tells it, so far at least as differences of idiom and circumstances
permit, and who will give a preference to the conscientious translator,
even though he may have acquitted himself somewhat awkwardly.
But after all there is no real antagonism between the two classes;
there is no reason why what pleases the one should not please the
other, or why a translator who makes it his aim to treat “Don Quixote”
with the respect due to a great classic, should not be as acceptable
even to the careless reader as the one who treats it as a famous old
jest-book. It is not a question of caviare to the general, or, if it
is, the fault rests with him who makes so. The method by which
Cervantes won the ear of the Spanish people ought, mutatis mutandis, to
be equally effective with the great majority of English readers. At any
rate, even if there are readers to whom it is a matter of indifference,
fidelity to the method is as much a part of the translator’s duty as
fidelity to the matter. If he can please all parties, so much the
better; but his first duty is to those who look to him for as faithful
a representation of his author as it is in his power to give them,
faithful to the letter so long as fidelity is practicable, faithful to
the spirit so far as he can make it.
My purpose here is not to dogmatise on the rules of translation, but to
indicate those I have followed, or at least tried to the best of my
ability to follow, in the present instance. One which, it seems to me,
cannot be too rigidly followed in translating “Don Quixote,” is to
avoid everything that savours of affectation. The book itself is,
indeed, in one sense a protest against it, and no man abhorred it more
than Cervantes. For this reason, I think, any temptation to use
antiquated or obsolete language should be resisted. It is after all an
affectation, and one for which there is no warrant or excuse. Spanish
has probably undergone less change since the seventeenth century than
any language in Europe, and by far the greater and certainly the best
part of “Don Quixote” differs but little in language from the
colloquial Spanish of the present day. Except in the tales and Don
Quixote’s speeches, the translator who uses the simplest and plainest
everyday language will almost always be the one who approaches nearest
to the original.
Seeing that the story of “Don Quixote” and all its characters and
incidents have now been for more than two centuries and a half familiar
as household words in English mouths, it seems to me that the old
familiar names and phrases should not be changed without good reason.
Of course a translator who holds that “Don Quixote” should receive the
treatment a great classic deserves, will feel himself bound by the
injunction laid upon the Morisco in Chap. IX not to omit or add
anything.
CERVANTES
Four generations had laughed over “Don Quixote” before it occurred to
anyone to ask, who and what manner of man was this Miguel de Cervantes
Saavedra whose name is on the title-page; and it was too late for a
satisfactory answer to the question when it was proposed to add a life
of the author to the London edition published at Lord Carteret’s
instance in 1738. All traces of the personality of Cervantes had by
that time disappeared. Any floating traditions that may once have
existed, transmitted from men who had known him, had long since died
out, and of other record there was none; for the sixteenth and
seventeenth centuries were incurious as to “the men of the time,” a
reproach against which the nineteenth has, at any rate, secured itself,
if it has produced no Shakespeare or Cervantes. All that Mayans y
Siscar, to whom the task was entrusted, or any of those who followed
him, Rios, Pellicer, or Navarrete, could do was to eke out the few
allusions Cervantes makes to himself in his various prefaces with such
pieces of documentary evidence bearing upon his life as they could
find.
This, however, has been done by the last-named biographer to such good
purpose that he has superseded all predecessors. Thoroughness is the
chief characteristic of Navarrete’s work. Besides sifting, testing, and
methodising with rare patience and judgment what had been previously
brought to light, he left, as the saying is, no stone unturned under
which anything to illustrate his subject might possibly be found.
Navarrete has done all that industry and acumen could do, and it is no
fault of his if he has not given us what we want. What Hallam says of
Shakespeare may be applied to the almost parallel case of Cervantes:
“It is not the register of his baptism, or the draft of his will, or
the orthography of his name that we seek; no letter of his writing, no
record of his conversation, no character of him drawn ... by a
contemporary has been produced.”
It is only natural, therefore, that the biographers of Cervantes,
forced to make brick without straw, should have recourse largely to
conjecture, and that conjecture should in some instances come by
degrees to take the place of established fact. All that I propose to do
here is to separate what is matter of fact from what is matter of
conjecture, and leave it to the reader’s judgment to decide whether the
data justify the inference or not.
The men whose names by common consent stand in the front rank of
Spanish literature, Cervantes, Lope de Vega, Quevedo, Calderon,
Garcilaso de la Vega, the Mendozas, Gongora, were all men of ancient
families, and, curiously, all, except the last, of families that traced
their origin to the same mountain district in the North of Spain. The
family of Cervantes is commonly said to have been of Galician origin,
and unquestionably it was in possession of lands in Galicia at a very
early date; but I think the balance of the evidence tends to show that
the “solar,” the original site of the family, was at Cervatos in the
north-west corner of Old Castile, close to the junction of Castile,
Leon, and the Asturias. As it happens, there is a complete history of
the Cervantes family from the tenth century down to the seventeenth
extant under the title of “Illustrious Ancestry, Glorious Deeds, and
Noble Posterity of the Famous Nuno Alfonso, Alcaide of Toledo,” written
in 1648 by the industrious genealogist Rodrigo Mendez Silva, who
availed himself of a manuscript genealogy by Juan de Mena, the poet
laureate and historiographer of John II.
The origin of the name Cervantes is curious. Nuno Alfonso was almost as
distinguished in the struggle against the Moors in the reign of Alfonso
VII as the Cid had been half a century before in that of Alfonso VI,
and was rewarded by divers grants of land in the neighbourhood of
Toledo. On one of his acquisitions, about two leagues from the city, he
built himself a castle which he called Cervatos, because “he was lord
of the solar of Cervatos in the Montana,” as the mountain region
extending from the Basque Provinces to Leon was always called. At his
death in battle in 1143, the castle passed by his will to his son
Alfonso Munio, who, as territorial or local surnames were then coming
into vogue in place of the simple patronymic, took the additional name
of Cervatos. His eldest son Pedro succeeded him in the possession of
the castle, and followed his example in adopting the name, an
assumption at which the younger son, Gonzalo, seems to have taken
umbrage.
Everyone who has paid even a flying visit to Toledo will remember the
ruined castle that crowns the hill above the spot where the bridge of
Alcántara spans the gorge of the Tagus, and with its broken outline and
crumbling walls makes such an admirable pendant to the square solid
Alcazar towering over the city roofs on the opposite side. It was
built, or as some say restored, by Alfonso VI shortly after his
occupation of Toledo in 1085, and called by him San Servando after a
Spanish martyr, a name subsequently modified into San Servan (in which
form it appears in the “Poem of the Cid”), San Servantes, and San
Cervantes: with regard to which last the “Handbook for Spain” warns its
readers against the supposition that it has anything to do with the
author of “Don Quixote.” Ford, as all know who have taken him for a
companion and counsellor on the roads of Spain, is seldom wrong in
matters of literature or history. In this instance, however, he is in
error. It has everything to do with the author of “Don Quixote,” for it
is in fact these old walls that have given to Spain the name she is
proudest of to-day. Gonzalo, above mentioned, it may be readily
conceived, did not relish the appropriation by his brother of a name to
which he himself had an equal right, for though nominally taken from
the castle, it was in reality derived from the ancient territorial
possession of the family, and as a set-off, and to distinguish himself
(diferenciarse) from his brother, he took as a surname the name of the
castle on the bank of the Tagus, in the building of which, according to
a family tradition, his great-grandfather had a share.
Both brothers founded families. The Cervantes branch had more tenacity;
it sent offshoots in various directions, Andalusia, Estremadura,
Galicia, and Portugal, and produced a goodly line of men distinguished
in the service of Church and State. Gonzalo himself, and apparently a
son of his, followed Ferdinand III in the great campaign of 1236-48
that gave Cordova and Seville to Christian Spain and penned up the
Moors in the kingdom of Granada, and his descendants intermarried with
some of the noblest families of the Peninsula and numbered among them
soldiers, magistrates, and Church dignitaries, including at least two
cardinal-archbishops.
Of the line that settled in Andalusia, Deigo de Cervantes, Commander of
the Order of Santiago, married Juana Avellaneda, daughter of Juan Arias
de Saavedra, and had several sons, of whom one was Gonzalo Gomez,
Corregidor of Jerez and ancestor of the Mexican and Columbian branches
of the family; and another, Juan, whose son Rodrigo married Doña Leonor
de Cortinas, and by her had four children, Rodrigo, Andrea, Luisa, and
Miguel, our author.
The pedigree of Cervantes is not without its bearing on “Don Quixote.”
A man who could look back upon an ancestry of genuine knights-errant
extending from well-nigh the time of Pelayo to the siege of Granada was
likely to have a strong feeling on the subject of the sham chivalry of
the romances. It gives a point, too, to what he says in more than one
place about families that have once been great and have tapered away
until they have come to nothing, like a pyramid. It was the case of his
own.
He was born at Alcalá de Henares and baptised in the church of Santa
Maria Mayor on the 9th of October, 1547. Of his boyhood and youth we
know nothing, unless it be from the glimpse he gives us in the preface
to his “Comedies” of himself as a boy looking on with delight while
Lope de Rueda and his company set up their rude plank stage in the
plaza and acted the rustic farces which he himself afterwards took as
the model of his interludes. This first glimpse, however, is a
significant one, for it shows the early development of that love of the
drama which exercised such an influence on his life and seems to have
grown stronger as he grew older, and of which this very preface,
written only a few months before his death, is such a striking proof.
He gives us to understand, too, that he was a great reader in his
youth; but of this no assurance was needed, for the First Part of “Don
Quixote” alone proves a vast amount of miscellaneous reading, romances
of chivalry, ballads, popular poetry, chronicles, for which he had no
time or opportunity except in the first twenty years of his life; and
his misquotations and mistakes in matters of detail are always, it may
be noticed, those of a man recalling the reading of his boyhood.
Other things besides the drama were in their infancy when Cervantes was
a boy. The period of his boyhood was in every way a transition period
for Spain. The old chivalrous Spain had passed away. The new Spain was
the mightiest power the world had seen since the Roman Empire and it
had not yet been called upon to pay the price of its greatness. By the
policy of Ferdinand and Ximenez the sovereign had been made absolute,
and the Church and Inquisition adroitly adjusted to keep him so. The
nobles, who had always resisted absolutism as strenuously as they had
fought the Moors, had been divested of all political power, a like fate
had befallen the cities, the free constitutions of Castile and Aragon
had been swept away, and the only function that remained to the Cortés
was that of granting money at the King’s dictation.
The transition extended to literature. Men who, like Garcilaso de la
Vega and Diego Hurtado de Mendoza, followed the Italian wars, had
brought back from Italy the products of the post-Renaissance
literature, which took root and flourished and even threatened to
extinguish the native growths. Damon and Thyrsis, Phyllis and Chloe had
been fairly naturalised in Spain, together with all the devices of
pastoral poetry for investing with an air of novelty the idea of a
dispairing shepherd and inflexible shepherdess. As a set-off against
this, the old historical and traditional ballads, and the true
pastorals, the songs and ballads of peasant life, were being collected
assiduously and printed in the cancioneros that succeeded one another
with increasing rapidity. But the most notable consequence, perhaps, of
the spread of printing was the flood of romances of chivalry that had
continued to pour from the press ever since Garci Ordoñez de Montalvo
had resuscitated “Amadis of Gaul” at the beginning of the century.
For a youth fond of reading, solid or light, there could have been no
better spot in Spain than Alcalá de Henares in the middle of the
sixteenth century. It was then a busy, populous university town,
something more than the enterprising rival of Salamanca, and altogether
a very different place from the melancholy, silent, deserted Alcalá the
traveller sees now as he goes from Madrid to Saragossa. Theology and
medicine may have been the strong points of the university, but the
town itself seems to have inclined rather to the humanities and light
literature, and as a producer of books Alcalá was already beginning to
compete with the older presses of Toledo, Burgos, Salamanca and
Seville.
A pendant to the picture Cervantes has given us of his first playgoings
might, no doubt, have been often seen in the streets of Alcalá at that
time; a bright, eager, tawny-haired boy peering into a book-shop where
the latest volumes lay open to tempt the public, wondering, it may be,
what that little book with the woodcut of the blind beggar and his boy,
that called itself “Vida de Lazarillo de Tormes, segunda impresion,”
could be about; or with eyes brimming over with merriment gazing at one
of those preposterous portraits of a knight-errant in outrageous
panoply and plumes with which the publishers of chivalry romances loved
to embellish the title-pages of their folios. If the boy was the father
of the man, the sense of the incongruous that was strong at fifty was
lively at ten, and some such reflections as these may have been the
true genesis of “Don Quixote.”
For his more solid education, we are told, he went to Salamanca. But
why Rodrigo de Cervantes, who was very poor, should have sent his son
to a university a hundred and fifty miles away when he had one at his
own door, would be a puzzle, if we had any reason for supposing that he
did so. The only evidence is a vague statement by Professor Tomas
Gonzalez, that he once saw an old entry of the matriculation of a
Miguel de Cervantes. This does not appear to have been ever seen again;
but even if it had, and if the date corresponded, it would prove
nothing, as there were at least two other Miguels born about the middle
of the century; one of them, moreover, a Cervantes Saavedra, a cousin,
no doubt, who was a source of great embarrassment to the biographers.
That he was a student neither at Salamanca nor at Alcalá is best proved
by his own works. No man drew more largely upon experience than he did,
and he has nowhere left a single reminiscence of student life—for the
“Tia Fingida,” if it be his, is not one—nothing, not even “a college
joke,” to show that he remembered days that most men remember best. All
that we know positively about his education is that Juan Lopez de
Hoyos, a professor of humanities and belles-lettres of some eminence,
calls him his “dear and beloved pupil.” This was in a little collection
of verses by different hands on the death of Isabel de Valois, second
queen of Philip II., published by the professor in 1569, to which
Cervantes contributed four pieces, including an elegy, and an epitaph
in the form of a sonnet. It is only by a rare chance that a “Lycidas”
finds its way into a volume of this sort, and Cervantes was no Milton.
His verses are no worse than such things usually are; so much, at
least, may be said for them.
By the time the book appeared he had left Spain, and, as fate ordered
it, for twelve years, the most eventful ones of his life. Giulio,
afterwards Cardinal, Acquaviva had been sent at the end of 1568 to
Philip II. by the Pope on a mission, partly of condolence, partly
political, and on his return to Rome, which was somewhat brusquely
expedited by the King, he took Cervantes with him as his camarero
(chamberlain), the office he himself held in the Pope’s household. The
post would no doubt have led to advancement at the Papal Court had
Cervantes retained it, but in the summer of 1570 he resigned it and
enlisted as a private soldier in Captain Diego Urbina’s company,
belonging to Don Miguel de Moncada’s regiment, but at that time forming
a part of the command of Marc Antony Colonna. What impelled him to this
step we know not, whether it was distaste for the career before him, or
purely military enthusiasm. It may well have been the latter, for it
was a stirring time; the events, however, which led to the alliance
between Spain, Venice, and the Pope, against the common enemy, the
Porte, and to the victory of the combined fleets at Lepanto, belong
rather to the history of Europe than to the life of Cervantes. He was
one of those that sailed from Messina, in September 1571, under the
command of Don John of Austria; but on the morning of the 7th of
October, when the Turkish fleet was sighted, he was lying below ill
with fever. At the news that the enemy was in sight he rose, and, in
spite of the remonstrances of his comrades and superiors, insisted on
taking his post, saying he preferred death in the service of God and
the King to health. His galley, the _Marquesa_, was in the thick of the
fight, and before it was over he had received three gunshot wounds, two
in the breast and one in the left hand or arm. On the morning after the
battle, according to Navarrete, he had an interview with the
commander-in-chief, Don John, who was making a personal inspection of
the wounded, one result of which was an addition of three crowns to his
pay, and another, apparently, the friendship of his general.
How severely Cervantes was wounded may be inferred from the fact, that
with youth, a vigorous frame, and as cheerful and buoyant a temperament
as ever invalid had, he was seven months in hospital at Messina before
he was discharged. He came out with his left hand permanently disabled;
he had lost the use of it, as Mercury told him in the “Viaje del
Parnaso” for the greater glory of the right. This, however, did not
absolutely unfit him for service, and in April 1572 he joined Manuel
Ponce de Leon’s company of Lope de Figueroa’s regiment, in which, it
seems probable, his brother Rodrigo was serving, and shared in the
operations of the next three years, including the capture of the
Goletta and Tunis. Taking advantage of the lull which followed the
recapture of these places by the Turks, he obtained leave to return to
Spain, and sailed from Naples in September 1575 on board the _Sun_
galley, in company with his brother Rodrigo, Pedro Carrillo de Quesada,
late Governor of the Goletta, and some others, and furnished with
letters from Don John of Austria and the Duke of Sesa, the Viceroy of
Sicily, recommending him to the King for the command of a company, on
account of his services; a _dono infelice_ as events proved. On the
26th they fell in with a squadron of Algerine galleys, and after a
stout resistance were overpowered and carried into Algiers.
By means of a ransomed fellow-captive the brothers contrived to inform
their family of their condition, and the poor people at Alcalá at once
strove to raise the ransom money, the father disposing of all he
possessed, and the two sisters giving up their marriage portions. But
Dali Mami had found on Cervantes the letters addressed to the King by
Don John and the Duke of Sesa, and, concluding that his prize must be a
person of great consequence, when the money came he refused it
scornfully as being altogether insufficient. The owner of Rodrigo,
however, was more easily satisfied; ransom was accepted in his case,
and it was arranged between the brothers that he should return to Spain
and procure a vessel in which he was to come back to Algiers and take
off Miguel and as many of their comrades as possible. This was not the
first attempt to escape that Cervantes had made. Soon after the
commencement of his captivity he induced several of his companions to
join him in trying to reach Oran, then a Spanish post, on foot; but
after the first day’s journey, the Moor who had agreed to act as their
guide deserted them, and they had no choice but to return. The second
attempt was more disastrous. In a garden outside the city on the
sea-shore, he constructed, with the help of the gardener, a Spaniard, a
hiding-place, to which he brought, one by one, fourteen of his
fellow-captives, keeping them there in secrecy for several months, and
supplying them with food through a renegade known as El Dorador, “the
Gilder.” How he, a captive himself, contrived to do all this, is one of
the mysteries of the story. Wild as the project may appear, it was very
nearly successful. The vessel procured by Rodrigo made its appearance
off the coast, and under cover of night was proceeding to take off the
refugees, when the crew were alarmed by a passing fishing boat, and
beat a hasty retreat. On renewing the attempt shortly afterwards, they,
or a portion of them at least, were taken prisoners, and just as the
poor fellows in the garden were exulting in the thought that in a few
moments more freedom would be within their grasp, they found themselves
surrounded by Turkish troops, horse and foot. The Dorador had revealed
the whole scheme to the Dey Hassan.
When Cervantes saw what had befallen them, he charged his companions to
lay all the blame upon him, and as they were being bound he declared
aloud that the whole plot was of his contriving, and that nobody else
had any share in it. Brought before the Dey, he said the same. He was
threatened with impalement and with torture; and as cutting off ears
and noses were playful freaks with the Algerines, it may be conceived
what their tortures were like; but nothing could make him swerve from
his original statement that he and he alone was responsible. The upshot
was that the unhappy gardener was hanged by his master, and the
prisoners taken possession of by the Dey, who, however, afterwards
restored most of them to their masters, but kept Cervantes, paying Dali
Mami 500 crowns for him. He felt, no doubt, that a man of such
resource, energy, and daring, was too dangerous a piece of property to
be left in private hands; and he had him heavily ironed and lodged in
his own prison. If he thought that by these means he could break the
spirit or shake the resolution of his prisoner, he was soon undeceived,
for Cervantes contrived before long to despatch a letter to the
Governor of Oran, entreating him to send him someone that could be
trusted, to enable him and three other gentlemen, fellow-captives of
his, to make their escape; intending evidently to renew his first
attempt with a more trustworthy guide. Unfortunately the Moor who
carried the letter was stopped just outside Oran, and the letter being
found upon him, he was sent back to Algiers, where by the order of the
Dey he was promptly impaled as a warning to others, while Cervantes was
condemned to receive two thousand blows of the stick, a number which
most likely would have deprived the world of “Don Quixote,” had not
some persons, who they were we know not, interceded on his behalf.
After this he seems to have been kept in still closer confinement than
before, for nearly two years passed before he made another attempt.
This time his plan was to purchase, by the aid of a Spanish renegade
and two Valencian merchants resident in Algiers, an armed vessel in
which he and about sixty of the leading captives were to make their
escape; but just as they were about to put it into execution one Doctor
Juan Blanco de Paz, an ecclesiastic and a compatriot, informed the Dey
of the plot. Cervantes by force of character, by his self-devotion, by
his untiring energy and his exertions to lighten the lot of his
companions in misery, had endeared himself to all, and become the
leading spirit in the captive colony, and, incredible as it may seem,
jealousy of his influence and the esteem in which he was held, moved
this man to compass his destruction by a cruel death. The merchants
finding that the Dey knew all, and fearing that Cervantes under torture
might make disclosures that would imperil their own lives, tried to
persuade him to slip away on board a vessel that was on the point of
sailing for Spain; but he told them they had nothing to fear, for no
tortures would make him compromise anybody, and he went at once and
gave himself up to the Dey.
As before, the Dey tried to force him to name his accomplices.
Everything was made ready for his immediate execution; the halter was
put round his neck and his hands tied behind him, but all that could be
got from him was that he himself, with the help of four gentlemen who
had since left Algiers, had arranged the whole, and that the sixty who
were to accompany him were not to know anything of it until the last
moment. Finding he could make nothing of him, the Dey sent him back to
prison more heavily ironed than before.
The poverty-stricken Cervantes family had been all this time trying
once more to raise the ransom money, and at last a sum of three hundred
ducats was got together and entrusted to the Redemptorist Father Juan
Gil, who was about to sail for Algiers. The Dey, however, demanded more
than double the sum offered, and as his term of office had expired and
he was about to sail for Constantinople, taking all his slaves with
him, the case of Cervantes was critical. He was already on board
heavily ironed, when the Dey at length agreed to reduce his demand by
one-half, and Father Gil by borrowing was able to make up the amount,
and on September 19, 1580, after a captivity of five years all but a
week, Cervantes was at last set free. Before long he discovered that
Blanco de Paz, who claimed to be an officer of the Inquisition, was now
concocting on false evidence a charge of misconduct to be brought
against him on his return to Spain. To checkmate him Cervantes drew up
a series of twenty-five questions, covering the whole period of his
captivity, upon which he requested Father Gil to take the depositions
of credible witnesses before a notary. Eleven witnesses taken from
among the principal captives in Algiers deposed to all the facts above
stated and to a great deal more besides. There is something touching in
the admiration, love, and gratitude we see struggling to find
expression in the formal language of the notary, as they testify one
after another to the good deeds of Cervantes, how he comforted and
helped the weak-hearted, how he kept up their drooping courage, how he
shared his poor purse with this deponent, and how “in him this deponent
found father and mother.”
On his return to Spain he found his old regiment about to march for
Portugal to support Philip’s claim to the crown, and utterly penniless
now, had no choice but to rejoin it. He was in the expeditions to the
Azores in 1582 and the following year, and on the conclusion of the war
returned to Spain in the autumn of 1583, bringing with him the
manuscript of his pastoral romance, the “Galatea,” and probably also,
to judge by internal evidence, that of the first portion of “Persiles
and Sigismunda.” He also brought back with him, his biographers assert,
an infant daughter, the offspring of an amour, as some of them with
great circumstantiality inform us, with a Lisbon lady of noble birth,
whose name, however, as well as that of the street she lived in, they
omit to mention. The sole foundation for all this is that in 1605 there
certainly was living in the family of Cervantes a Doña Isabel de
Saavedra, who is described in an official document as his natural
daughter, and then twenty years of age.
With his crippled left hand promotion in the army was hopeless, now
that Don John was dead and he had no one to press his claims and
services, and for a man drawing on to forty life in the ranks was a
dismal prospect; he had already a certain reputation as a poet; he made
up his mind, therefore, to cast his lot with literature, and for a
first venture committed his “Galatea” to the press. It was published,
as Salva y Mallen shows conclusively, at Alcalá, his own birth-place,
in 1585 and no doubt helped to make his name more widely known, but
certainly did not do him much good in any other way.
While it was going through the press, he married Doña Catalina de
Palacios Salazar y Vozmediano, a lady of Esquivias near Madrid, and
apparently a friend of the family, who brought him a fortune which may
possibly have served to keep the wolf from the door, but if so, that
was all. The drama had by this time outgrown market-place stages and
strolling companies, and with his old love for it he naturally turned
to it for a congenial employment. In about three years he wrote twenty
or thirty plays, which he tells us were performed without any throwing
of cucumbers or other missiles, and ran their course without any
hisses, outcries, or disturbance. In other words, his plays were not
bad enough to be hissed off the stage, but not good enough to hold
their own upon it. Only two of them have been preserved, but as they
happen to be two of the seven or eight he mentions with complacency, we
may assume they are favourable specimens, and no one who reads the
“Numancia” and the “Trato de Argel” will feel any surprise that they
failed as acting dramas. Whatever merits they may have, whatever
occasional they may show, they are, as regards construction, incurably
clumsy. How completely they failed is manifest from the fact that with
all his sanguine temperament and indomitable perseverance he was unable
to maintain the struggle to gain a livelihood as a dramatist for more
than three years; nor was the rising popularity of Lope the cause, as
is often said, notwithstanding his own words to the contrary. When Lope
began to write for the stage is uncertain, but it was certainly after
Cervantes went to Seville.
Among the “Nuevos Documentos” printed by Señor Asensio y Toledo is one
dated 1592, and curiously characteristic of Cervantes. It is an
agreement with one Rodrigo Osorio, a manager, who was to accept six
comedies at fifty ducats (about 6l.) apiece, not to be paid in any case
unless it appeared on representation that the said comedy was one of
the best that had ever been represented in Spain. The test does not
seem to have been ever applied; perhaps it was sufficiently apparent to
Rodrigo Osorio that the comedies were not among the best that had ever
been represented. Among the correspondence of Cervantes there might
have been found, no doubt, more than one letter like that we see in the
“Rake’s Progress,” “Sir, I have read your play, and it will not doo.”
He was more successful in a literary contest at Saragossa in 1595 in
honour of the canonisation of St. Jacinto, when his composition won the
first prize, three silver spoons. The year before this he had been
appointed a collector of revenues for the kingdom of Granada. In order
to remit the money he had collected more conveniently to the treasury,
he entrusted it to a merchant, who failed and absconded; and as the
bankrupt’s assets were insufficient to cover the whole, he was sent to
prison at Seville in September 1597. The balance against him, however,
was a small one, about 26l., and on giving security for it he was
released at the end of the year.
It was as he journeyed from town to town collecting the king’s taxes,
that he noted down those bits of inn and wayside life and character
that abound in the pages of “Don Quixote:” the Benedictine monks with
spectacles and sunshades, mounted on their tall mules; the strollers in
costume bound for the next village; the barber with his basin on his
head, on his way to bleed a patient; the recruit with his breeches in
his bundle, tramping along the road singing; the reapers gathered in
the venta gateway listening to “Felixmarte of Hircania” read out to
them; and those little Hogarthian touches that he so well knew how to
bring in, the ox-tail hanging up with the landlord’s comb stuck in it,
the wine-skins at the bed-head, and those notable examples of hostelry
art, Helen going off in high spirits on Paris’s arm, and Dido on the
tower dropping tears as big as walnuts. Nay, it may well be that on
those journeys into remote regions he came across now and then a
specimen of the pauper gentleman, with his lean hack and his greyhound
and his books of chivalry, dreaming away his life in happy ignorance
that the world had changed since his great-grandfather’s old helmet was
new. But it was in Seville that he found out his true vocation, though
he himself would not by any means have admitted it to be so. It was
there, in Triana, that he was first tempted to try his hand at drawing
from life, and first brought his humour into play in the exquisite
little sketch of “Rinconete y Cortadillo,” the germ, in more ways than
one, of “Don Quixote.”
Where and when that was written, we cannot tell. After his imprisonment
all trace of Cervantes in his official capacity disappears, from which
it may be inferred that he was not reinstated. That he was still in
Seville in November 1598 appears from a satirical sonnet of his on the
elaborate catafalque erected to testify the grief of the city at the
death of Philip II, but from this up to 1603 we have no clue to his
movements. The words in the preface to the First Part of “Don Quixote”
are generally held to be conclusive that he conceived the idea of the
book, and wrote the beginning of it at least, in a prison, and that he
may have done so is extremely likely.
There is a tradition that Cervantes read some portions of his work to a
select audience at the Duke of Bejar’s, which may have helped to make
the book known; but the obvious conclusion is that the First Part of
“Don Quixote” lay on his hands some time before he could find a
publisher bold enough to undertake a venture of so novel a character;
and so little faith in it had Francisco Robles of Madrid, to whom at
last he sold it, that he did not care to incur the expense of securing
the copyright for Aragon or Portugal, contenting himself with that for
Castile. The printing was finished in December, and the book came out
with the new year, 1605. It is often said that “Don Quixote” was at
first received coldly. The facts show just the contrary. No sooner was
it in the hands of the public than preparations were made to issue
pirated editions at Lisbon and Valencia, and to bring out a second
edition with the additional copyrights for Aragon and Portugal, which
he secured in February.
No doubt it was received with something more than coldness by certain
sections of the community. Men of wit, taste, and discrimination among
the aristocracy gave it a hearty welcome, but the aristocracy in
general were not likely to relish a book that turned their favourite
reading into ridicule and laughed at so many of their favourite ideas.
The dramatists who gathered round Lope as their leader regarded
Cervantes as their common enemy, and it is plain that he was equally
obnoxious to the other clique, the culto poets who had Gongora for
their chief. Navarrete, who knew nothing of the letter above mentioned,
tries hard to show that the relations between Cervantes and Lope were
of a very friendly sort, as indeed they were until “Don Quixote” was
written. Cervantes, indeed, to the last generously and manfully
declared his admiration of Lope’s powers, his unfailing invention, and
his marvellous fertility; but in the preface of the First Part of “Don
Quixote” and in the verses of “Urganda the Unknown,” and one or two
other places, there are, if we read between the lines, sly hits at
Lope’s vanities and affectations that argue no personal good-will; and
Lope openly sneers at “Don Quixote” and Cervantes, and fourteen years
after his death gives him only a few lines of cold commonplace in the
“Laurel de Apolo,” that seem all the colder for the eulogies of a host
of nonentities whose names are found nowhere else.
In 1601 Valladolid was made the seat of the Court, and at the beginning
of 1603 Cervantes had been summoned thither in connection with the
balance due by him to the Treasury, which was still outstanding. He
remained at Valladolid, apparently supporting himself by agencies and
scrivener’s work of some sort; probably drafting petitions and drawing
up statements of claims to be presented to the Council, and the like.
So, at least, we gather from the depositions taken on the occasion of
the death of a gentleman, the victim of a street brawl, who had been
carried into the house in which he lived. In these he himself is
described as a man who wrote and transacted business, and it appears
that his household then consisted of his wife, the natural daughter
Isabel de Saavedra already mentioned, his sister Andrea, now a widow,
her daughter Constanza, a mysterious Magdalena de Sotomayor calling
herself his sister, for whom his biographers cannot account, and a
servant-maid.
Meanwhile “Don Quixote” had been growing in favour, and its author’s
name was now known beyond the Pyrenees. In 1607 an edition was printed
at Brussels. Robles, the Madrid publisher, found it necessary to meet
the demand by a third edition, the seventh in all, in 1608. The
popularity of the book in Italy was such that a Milan bookseller was
led to bring out an edition in 1610; and another was called for in
Brussels in 1611. It might naturally have been expected that, with such
proofs before him that he had hit the taste of the public, Cervantes
would have at once set about redeeming his rather vague promise of a
second volume.
But, to all appearance, nothing was farther from his thoughts. He had
still by him one or two short tales of the same vintage as those he had
inserted in “Don Quixote” and instead of continuing the adventures of
Don Quixote, he set to work to write more of these “Novelas Exemplares”
as he afterwards called them, with a view to making a book of them.
The novels were published in the summer of 1613, with a dedication to
the Conde de Lemos, the Maecenas of the day, and with one of those
chatty confidential prefaces Cervantes was so fond of. In this, eight
years and a half after the First Part of “Don Quixote” had appeared, we
get the first hint of a forthcoming Second Part. “You shall see
shortly,” he says, “the further exploits of Don Quixote and humours of
Sancho Panza.” His idea of “shortly” was a somewhat elastic one, for,
as we know by the date to Sancho’s letter, he had barely one-half of
the book completed that time twelvemonth.
But more than poems, or pastorals, or novels, it was his dramatic
ambition that engrossed his thoughts. The same indomitable spirit that
kept him from despair in the bagnios of Algiers, and prompted him to
attempt the escape of himself and his comrades again and again, made
him persevere in spite of failure and discouragement in his efforts to
win the ear of the public as a dramatist. The temperament of Cervantes
was essentially sanguine. The portrait he draws in the preface to the
novels, with the aquiline features, chestnut hair, smooth untroubled
forehead, and bright cheerful eyes, is the very portrait of a sanguine
man. Nothing that the managers might say could persuade him that the
merits of his plays would not be recognised at last if they were only
given a fair chance. The old soldier of the Spanish Salamis was bent on
being the Aeschylus of Spain. He was to found a great national drama,
based on the true principles of art, that was to be the envy of all
nations; he was to drive from the stage the silly, childish plays, the
“mirrors of nonsense and models of folly” that were in vogue through
the cupidity of the managers and shortsightedness of the authors; he
was to correct and educate the public taste until it was ripe for
tragedies on the model of the Greek drama—like the “Numancia” for
instance—and comedies that would not only amuse but improve and
instruct. All this he was to do, could he once get a hearing: there was
the initial difficulty.
He shows plainly enough, too, that “Don Quixote” and the demolition of
the chivalry romances was not the work that lay next his heart. He was,
indeed, as he says himself in his preface, more a stepfather than a
father to “Don Quixote.” Never was great work so neglected by its
author. That it was written carelessly, hastily, and by fits and
starts, was not always his fault, but it seems clear he never read what
he sent to the press. He knew how the printers had blundered, but he
never took the trouble to correct them when the third edition was in
progress, as a man who really cared for the child of his brain would
have done. He appears to have regarded the book as little more than a
mere libro de entretenimiento, an amusing book, a thing, as he says in
the “Viaje,” “to divert the melancholy moody heart at any time or
season.” No doubt he had an affection for his hero, and was very proud
of Sancho Panza. It would have been strange indeed if he had not been
proud of the most humorous creation in all fiction. He was proud, too,
of the popularity and success of the book, and beyond measure
delightful is the naivete with which he shows his pride in a dozen
passages in the Second Part. But it was not the success he coveted. In
all probability he would have given all the success of “Don Quixote,”
nay, would have seen every copy of “Don Quixote” burned in the Plaza
Mayor, for one such success as Lope de Vega was enjoying on an average
once a week.
And so he went on, dawdling over “Don Quixote,” adding a chapter now
and again, and putting it aside to turn to “Persiles and
Sigismunda”—which, as we know, was to be the most entertaining book in
the language, and the rival of “Theagenes and Chariclea”—or finishing
off one of his darling comedies; and if Robles asked when “Don Quixote”
would be ready, the answer no doubt was: En breve—shortly, there was
time enough for that. At sixty-eight he was as full of life and hope
and plans for the future as a boy of eighteen.
Nemesis was coming, however. He had got as far as Chapter LIX, which at
his leisurely pace he could hardly have reached before October or
November 1614, when there was put into his hand a small octave lately
printed at Tarragona, and calling itself “Second Volume of the
Ingenious Gentleman Don Quixote of La Mancha: by the Licentiate Alonso
Fernandez de Avellaneda of Tordesillas.” The last half of Chapter LIX
and most of the following chapters of the Second Part give us some idea
of the effect produced upon him, and his irritation was not likely to
be lessened by the reflection that he had no one to blame but himself.
Had Avellaneda, in fact, been content with merely bringing out a
continuation to “Don Quixote,” Cervantes would have had no reasonable
grievance. His own intentions were expressed in the very vaguest
language at the end of the book; nay, in his last words, “forse altro
cantera con miglior plettro,” he seems actually to invite someone else
to continue the work, and he made no sign until eight years and a half
had gone by; by which time Avellaneda’s volume was no doubt written.
In fact Cervantes had no case, or a very bad one, as far as the mere
continuation was concerned. But Avellaneda chose to write a preface to
it, full of such coarse personal abuse as only an ill-conditioned man
could pour out. He taunts Cervantes with being old, with having lost
his hand, with having been in prison, with being poor, with being
friendless, accuses him of envy of Lope’s success, of petulance and
querulousness, and so on; and it was in this that the sting lay.
Avellaneda’s reason for this personal attack is obvious enough. Whoever
he may have been, it is clear that he was one of the dramatists of
Lope’s school, for he has the impudence to charge Cervantes with
attacking him as well as Lope in his criticism on the drama. His
identification has exercised the best critics and baffled all the
ingenuity and research that has been brought to bear on it. Navarrete
and Ticknor both incline to the belief that Cervantes knew who he was;
but I must say I think the anger he shows suggests an invisible
assailant; it is like the irritation of a man stung by a mosquito in
the dark. Cervantes from certain solecisms of language pronounces him
to be an Aragonese, and Pellicer, an Aragonese himself, supports this
view and believes him, moreover, to have been an ecclesiastic, a
Dominican probably.
Any merit Avellaneda has is reflected from Cervantes, and he is too
dull to reflect much. “Dull and dirty” will always be, I imagine, the
verdict of the vast majority of unprejudiced readers. He is, at best, a
poor plagiarist; all he can do is to follow slavishly the lead given
him by Cervantes; his only humour lies in making Don Quixote take inns
for castles and fancy himself some legendary or historical personage,
and Sancho mistake words, invert proverbs, and display his gluttony;
all through he shows a proclivity to coarseness and dirt, and he has
contrived to introduce two tales filthier than anything by the
sixteenth century novellieri and without their sprightliness.
But whatever Avellaneda and his book may be, we must not forget the
debt we owe them. But for them, there can be no doubt, “Don Quixote”
would have come to us a mere torso instead of a complete work. Even if
Cervantes had finished the volume he had in hand, most assuredly he
would have left off with a promise of a Third Part, giving the further
adventures of Don Quixote and humours of Sancho Panza as shepherds. It
is plain that he had at one time an intention of dealing with the
pastoral romances as he had dealt with the books of chivalry, and but
for Avellaneda he would have tried to carry it out. But it is more
likely that, with his plans, and projects, and hopefulness, the volume
would have remained unfinished till his death, and that we should have
never made the acquaintance of the Duke and Duchess, or gone with
Sancho to Barataria.
From the moment the book came into his hands he seems to have been
haunted by the fear that there might be more Avellanedas in the field,
and putting everything else aside, he set himself to finish off his
task and protect Don Quixote in the only way he could, by killing him.
The conclusion is no doubt a hasty and in some places clumsy piece of
work and the frequent repetition of the scolding administered to
Avellaneda becomes in the end rather wearisome; but it is, at any rate,
a conclusion and for that we must thank Avellaneda.
The new volume was ready for the press in February, but was not printed
till the very end of 1615, and during the interval Cervantes put
together the comedies and interludes he had written within the last few
years, and, as he adds plaintively, found no demand for among the
managers, and published them with a preface, worth the book it
introduces tenfold, in which he gives an account of the early Spanish
stage, and of his own attempts as a dramatist. It is needless to say
they were put forward by Cervantes in all good faith and full
confidence in their merits. The reader, however, was not to suppose
they were his last word or final effort in the drama, for he had in
hand a comedy called “Engano a los ojos,” about which, if he mistook
not, there would be no question.
Of this dramatic masterpiece the world has no opportunity of judging;
his health had been failing for some time, and he died, apparently of
dropsy, on the 23rd of April, 1616, the day on which England lost
Shakespeare, nominally at least, for the English calendar had not yet
been reformed. He died as he had lived, accepting his lot bravely and
cheerfully.
Was it an unhappy life, that of Cervantes? His biographers all tell us
that it was; but I must say I doubt it. It was a hard life, a life of
poverty, of incessant struggle, of toil ill paid, of disappointment,
but Cervantes carried within himself the antidote to all these evils.
His was not one of those light natures that rise above adversity merely
by virtue of their own buoyancy; it was in the fortitude of a high
spirit that he was proof against it. It is impossible to conceive
Cervantes giving way to despondency or prostrated by dejection. As for
poverty, it was with him a thing to be laughed over, and the only sigh
he ever allows to escape him is when he says, “Happy he to whom Heaven
has given a piece of bread for which he is not bound to give thanks to
any but Heaven itself.” Add to all this his vital energy and mental
activity, his restless invention and his sanguine temperament, and
there will be reason enough to doubt whether his could have been a very
unhappy life. He who could take Cervantes’ distresses together with his
apparatus for enduring them would not make so bad a bargain, perhaps,
as far as happiness in life is concerned.
Of his burial-place nothing is known except that he was buried, in
accordance with his will, in the neighbouring convent of Trinitarian
nuns, of which it is supposed his daughter, Isabel de Saavedra, was an
inmate, and that a few years afterwards the nuns removed to another
convent, carrying their dead with them. But whether the remains of
Cervantes were included in the removal or not no one knows, and the
clue to their resting-place is now lost beyond all hope. This furnishes
perhaps the least defensible of the items in the charge of neglect
brought against his contemporaries. In some of the others there is a
good deal of exaggeration. To listen to most of his biographers one
would suppose that all Spain was in league not only against the man but
against his memory, or at least that it was insensible to his merits,
and left him to live in misery and die of want. To talk of his hard
life and unworthy employments in Andalusia is absurd. What had he done
to distinguish him from thousands of other struggling men earning a
precarious livelihood? True, he was a gallant soldier, who had been
wounded and had undergone captivity and suffering in his country’s
cause, but there were hundreds of others in the same case. He had
written a mediocre specimen of an insipid class of romance, and some
plays which manifestly did not comply with the primary condition of
pleasing: were the playgoers to patronise plays that did not amuse
them, because the author was to produce “Don Quixote” twenty years
afterwards?
The scramble for copies which, as we have seen, followed immediately on
the appearance of the book, does not look like general insensibility to
its merits. No doubt it was received coldly by some, but if a man
writes a book in ridicule of periwigs he must make his account with
being coldly received by the periwig wearers and hated by the whole
tribe of wigmakers. If Cervantes had the chivalry-romance readers, the
sentimentalists, the dramatists, and the poets of the period all
against him, it was because “Don Quixote” was what it was; and if the
general public did not come forward to make him comfortable for the
rest of his days, it is no more to be charged with neglect and
ingratitude than the English-speaking public that did not pay off
Scott’s liabilities. It did the best it could; it read his book and
liked it and bought it, and encouraged the bookseller to pay him well
for others.
It has been also made a reproach to Spain that she has erected no
monument to the man she is proudest of; no monument, that is to say, of
him; for the bronze statue in the little garden of the Plaza de las
Cortés, a fair work of art no doubt, and unexceptionable had it been
set up to the local poet in the market-place of some provincial town,
is not worthy of Cervantes or of Madrid. But what need has Cervantes of
“such weak witness of his name;” or what could a monument do in his
case except testify to the self-glorification of those who had put it
up? Si monumentum quoeris, circumspice. The nearest bookseller’s shop
will show what bathos there would be in a monument to the author of
“Don Quixote.”
‘DON QUIXOTE’
Nine editions of the First Part of “Don Quixote” had already appeared
before Cervantes died, thirty thousand copies in all, according to his
own estimate, and a tenth was printed at Barcelona the year after his
death. So large a number naturally supplied the demand for some time,
but by 1634 it appears to have been exhausted; and from that time down
to the present day the stream of editions has continued to flow rapidly
and regularly. The translations show still more clearly in what request
the book has been from the very outset. In seven years from the
completion of the work it had been translated into the four leading
languages of Europe. Except the Bible, in fact, no book has been so
widely diffused as “Don Quixote.” The “Imitatio Christi” may have been
translated into as many different languages, and perhaps “Robinson
Crusoe” and the “Vicar of Wakefield” into nearly as many, but in
multiplicity of translations and editions “Don Quixote” leaves them all
far behind.
Still more remarkable is the character of this wide diffusion. “Don
Quixote” has been thoroughly naturalised among people whose ideas about
knight-errantry, if they had any at all, were of the vaguest, who had
never seen or heard of a book of chivalry, who could not possibly feel
the humour of the burlesque or sympathise with the author’s purpose.
Another curious fact is that this, the most cosmopolitan book in the
world, is one of the most intensely national. “Manon Lescaut” is not
more thoroughly French, “Tom Jones” not more English, “Rob Roy” not
more Scotch, than “Don Quixote” is Spanish, in character, in ideas, in
sentiment, in local colour, in everything. What, then, is the secret of
this unparalleled popularity, increasing year by year for well-nigh
three centuries? One explanation, no doubt, is that of all the books in
the world, “Don Quixote” is the most catholic. There is something in it
for every sort of reader, young or old, sage or simple, high or low. As
Cervantes himself says with a touch of pride, “It is thumbed and read
and got by heart by people of all sorts; the children turn its leaves,
the young people read it, the grown men understand it, the old folk
praise it.”
But it would be idle to deny that the ingredient which, more than its
humour, or its wisdom, or the fertility of invention or knowledge of
human nature it displays, has insured its success with the multitude,
is the vein of farce that runs through it. It was the attack upon the
sheep, the battle with the wine-skins, Mambrino’s helmet, the balsam of
Fierabras, Don Quixote knocked over by the sails of the windmill,
Sancho tossed in the blanket, the mishaps and misadventures of master
and man, that were originally the great attraction, and perhaps are so
still to some extent with the majority of readers. It is plain that
“Don Quixote” was generally regarded at first, and indeed in Spain for
a long time, as little more than a queer droll book, full of laughable
incidents and absurd situations, very amusing, but not entitled to much
consideration or care. All the editions printed in Spain from 1637 to
1771, when the famous printer Ibarra took it up, were mere trade
editions, badly and carelessly printed on vile paper and got up in the
style of chap-books intended only for popular use, with, in most
instances, uncouth illustrations and clap-trap additions by the
publisher.
To England belongs the credit of having been the first country to
recognise the right of “Don Quixote” to better treatment than this. The
London edition of 1738, commonly called Lord Carteret’s from having
been suggested by him, was not a mere _édition de luxe_. It produced
“Don Quixote” in becoming form as regards paper and type, and
embellished with plates which, if not particularly happy as
illustrations, were at least well intentioned and well executed, but it
also aimed at correctness of text, a matter to which nobody except the
editors of the Valencia and Brussels editions had given even a passing
thought; and for a first attempt it was fairly successful, for though
some of its emendations are inadmissible, a good many of them have been
adopted by all subsequent editors.
The zeal of publishers, editors, and annotators brought about a
remarkable change of sentiment with regard to “Don Quixote.” A vast
number of its admirers began to grow ashamed of laughing over it. It
became almost a crime to treat it as a humorous book. The humour was
not entirely denied, but, according to the new view, it was rated as an
altogether secondary quality, a mere accessory, nothing more than the
stalking-horse under the presentation of which Cervantes shot his
philosophy or his satire, or whatever it was he meant to shoot; for on
this point opinions varied. All were agreed, however, that the object
he aimed at was not the books of chivalry. He said emphatically in the
preface to the First Part and in the last sentence of the Second, that
he had no other object in view than to discredit these books, and this,
to advanced criticism, made it clear that his object must have been
something else.
One theory was that the book was a kind of allegory, setting forth the
eternal struggle between the ideal and the real, between the spirit of
poetry and the spirit of prose; and perhaps German philosophy never
evolved a more ungainly or unlikely camel out of the depths of its
inner consciousness. Something of the antagonism, no doubt, is to be
found in “Don Quixote,” because it is to be found everywhere in life,
and Cervantes drew from life. It is difficult to imagine a community in
which the never-ceasing game of cross-purposes between Sancho Panza and
Don Quixote would not be recognised as true to nature. In the stone
age, among the lake dwellers, among the cave men, there were Don
Quixotes and Sancho Panzas; there must have been the troglodyte who
never could see the facts before his eyes, and the troglodyte who could
see nothing else. But to suppose Cervantes deliberately setting himself
to expound any such idea in two stout quarto volumes is to suppose
something not only very unlike the age in which he lived, but
altogether unlike Cervantes himself, who would have been the first to
laugh at an attempt of the sort made by anyone else.
The extraordinary influence of the romances of chivalry in his day is
quite enough to account for the genesis of the book. Some idea of the
prodigious development of this branch of literature in the sixteenth
century may be obtained from the scrutiny of Chapter VII, if the reader
bears in mind that only a portion of the romances belonging to by far
the largest group are enumerated. As to its effect upon the nation,
there is abundant evidence. From the time when the Amadises and
Palmerins began to grow popular down to the very end of the century,
there is a steady stream of invective, from men whose character and
position lend weight to their words, against the romances of chivalry
and the infatuation of their readers. Ridicule was the only besom to
sweep away that dust.
That this was the task Cervantes set himself, and that he had ample
provocation to urge him to it, will be sufficiently clear to those who
look into the evidence; as it will be also that it was not chivalry
itself that he attacked and swept away. Of all the absurdities that,
thanks to poetry, will be repeated to the end of time, there is no
greater one than saying that “Cervantes smiled Spain’s chivalry away.”
In the first place there was no chivalry for him to smile away. Spain’s
chivalry had been dead for more than a century. Its work was done when
Granada fell, and as chivalry was essentially republican in its nature,
it could not live under the rule that Ferdinand substituted for the
free institutions of mediaeval Spain. What he did smile away was not
chivalry but a degrading mockery of it.
The true nature of the “right arm” and the “bright array,” before
which, according to the poet, “the world gave ground,” and which
Cervantes’ single laugh demolished, may be gathered from the words of
one of his own countrymen, Don Felix Pacheco, as reported by Captain
George Carleton, in his “Military Memoirs from 1672 to 1713.” “Before
the appearance in the world of that labour of Cervantes,” he said, “it
was next to an impossibility for a man to walk the streets with any
delight or without danger. There were seen so many cavaliers prancing
and curvetting before the windows of their mistresses, that a stranger
would have imagined the whole nation to have been nothing less than a
race of knight-errants. But after the world became a little acquainted
with that notable history, the man that was seen in that once
celebrated drapery was pointed at as a Don Quixote, and found himself
the jest of high and low. And I verily believe that to this, and this
only, we owe that dampness and poverty of spirit which has run through
all our councils for a century past, so little agreeable to those
nobler actions of our famous ancestors.”
To call “Don Quixote” a sad book, preaching a pessimist view of life,
argues a total misconception of its drift. It would be so if its moral
were that, in this world, true enthusiasm naturally leads to ridicule
and discomfiture. But it preaches nothing of the sort; its moral, so
far as it can be said to have one, is that the spurious enthusiasm that
is born of vanity and self-conceit, that is made an end in itself, not
a means to an end, that acts on mere impulse, regardless of
circumstances and consequences, is mischievous to its owner, and a very
considerable nuisance to the community at large. To those who cannot
distinguish between the one kind and the other, no doubt “Don Quixote”
is a sad book; no doubt to some minds it is very sad that a man who had
just uttered so beautiful a sentiment as that “it is a hard case to
make slaves of those whom God and Nature made free,” should be
ungratefully pelted by the scoundrels his crazy philanthropy had let
loose on society; but to others of a more judicial cast it will be a
matter of regret that reckless self-sufficient enthusiasm is not
oftener requited in some such way for all the mischief it does in the
world.
A very slight examination of the structure of “Don Quixote” will
suffice to show that Cervantes had no deep design or elaborate plan in
his mind when he began the book. When he wrote those lines in which
“with a few strokes of a great master he sets before us the pauper
gentleman,” he had no idea of the goal to which his imagination was
leading him. There can be little doubt that all he contemplated was a
short tale to range with those he had already written, a tale setting
forth the ludicrous results that might be expected to follow the
attempt of a crazy gentleman to act the part of a knight-errant in
modern life.
It is plain, for one thing, that Sancho Panza did not enter into the
original scheme, for had Cervantes thought of him he certainly would
not have omitted him in his hero’s outfit, which he obviously meant to
be complete. Him we owe to the landlord’s chance remark in Chapter III
that knights seldom travelled without squires. To try to think of a Don
Quixote without Sancho Panza is like trying to think of a one-bladed
pair of scissors.
The story was written at first, like the others, without any division
and without the intervention of Cid Hamete Benengeli; and it seems not
unlikely that Cervantes had some intention of bringing Dulcinea, or
Aldonza Lorenzo, on the scene in person. It was probably the ransacking
of the Don’s library and the discussion on the books of chivalry that
first suggested it to him that his idea was capable of development.
What, if instead of a mere string of farcical misadventures, he were to
make his tale a burlesque of one of these books, caricaturing their
style, incidents, and spirit?
In pursuance of this change of plan, he hastily and somewhat clumsily
divided what he had written into chapters on the model of “Amadis,”
invented the fable of a mysterious Arabic manuscript, and set up Cid
Hamete Benengeli in imitation of the almost invariable practice of the
chivalry-romance authors, who were fond of tracing their books to some
recondite source. In working out the new ideas, he soon found the value
of Sancho Panza. Indeed, the keynote, not only to Sancho’s part, but to
the whole book, is struck in the first words Sancho utters when he
announces his intention of taking his ass with him. “About the ass,” we
are told, “Don Quixote hesitated a little, trying whether he could call
to mind any knight-errant taking with him an esquire mounted on
ass-back; but no instance occurred to his memory.” We can see the whole
scene at a glance, the stolid unconsciousness of Sancho and the
perplexity of his master, upon whose perception the incongruity has
just forced itself. This is Sancho’s mission throughout the book; he is
an unconscious Mephistopheles, always unwittingly making mockery of his
master’s aspirations, always exposing the fallacy of his ideas by some
unintentional ad absurdum, always bringing him back to the world of
fact and commonplace by force of sheer stolidity.
By the time Cervantes had got his volume of novels off his hands, and
summoned up resolution enough to set about the Second Part in earnest,
the case was very much altered. Don Quixote and Sancho Panza had not
merely found favour, but had already become, what they have never since
ceased to be, veritable entities to the popular imagination. There was
no occasion for him now to interpolate extraneous matter; nay, his
readers told him plainly that what they wanted of him was more Don
Quixote and more Sancho Panza, and not novels, tales, or digressions.
To himself, too, his creations had become realities, and he had become
proud of them, especially of Sancho. He began the Second Part,
therefore, under very different conditions, and the difference makes
itself manifest at once. Even in translation the style will be seen to
be far easier, more flowing, more natural, and more like that of a man
sure of himself and of his audience. Don Quixote and Sancho undergo a
change also. In the First Part, Don Quixote has no character or
individuality whatever. He is nothing more than a crazy representative
of the sentiments of the chivalry romances. In all that he says and
does he is simply repeating the lesson he has learned from his books;
and therefore, it is absurd to speak of him in the gushing strain of
the sentimental critics when they dilate upon his nobleness,
disinterestedness, dauntless courage, and so forth. It was the business
of a knight-errant to right wrongs, redress injuries, and succour the
distressed, and this, as a matter of course, he makes his business when
he takes up the part; a knight-errant was bound to be intrepid, and so
he feels bound to cast fear aside. Of all Byron’s melodious nonsense
about Don Quixote, the most nonsensical statement is that “’tis his
virtue makes him mad!” The exact opposite is the truth; it is his
madness makes him virtuous.
In the Second Part, Cervantes repeatedly reminds the reader, as if it
was a point upon which he was anxious there should be no mistake, that
his hero’s madness is strictly confined to delusions on the subject of
chivalry, and that on every other subject he is discreto, one, in fact,
whose faculty of discernment is in perfect order. The advantage of this
is that he is enabled to make use of Don Quixote as a mouthpiece for
his own reflections, and so, without seeming to digress, allow himself
the relief of digression when he requires it, as freely as in a
commonplace book.
It is true the amount of individuality bestowed upon Don Quixote is not
very great. There are some natural touches of character about him, such
as his mixture of irascibility and placability, and his curious
affection for Sancho together with his impatience of the squire’s
loquacity and impertinence; but in the main, apart from his craze, he
is little more than a thoughtful, cultured gentleman, with instinctive
good taste and a great deal of shrewdness and originality of mind.
As to Sancho, it is plain, from the concluding words of the preface to
the First Part, that he was a favourite with his creator even before he
had been taken into favour by the public. An inferior genius, taking
him in hand a second time, would very likely have tried to improve him
by making him more comical, clever, amiable, or virtuous. But Cervantes
was too true an artist to spoil his work in this way. Sancho, when he
reappears, is the old Sancho with the old familiar features; but with a
difference; they have been brought out more distinctly, but at the same
time with a careful avoidance of anything like caricature; the outline
has been filled in where filling in was necessary, and, vivified by a
few touches of a master’s hand, Sancho stands before us as he might in
a character portrait by Velazquez. He is a much more important and
prominent figure in the Second Part than in the First; indeed, it is
his matchless mendacity about Dulcinea that to a great extent supplies
the action of the story.
His development in this respect is as remarkable as in any other. In
the First Part he displays a great natural gift of lying. His lies are
not of the highly imaginative sort that liars in fiction commonly
indulge in; like Falstaff’s, they resemble the father that begets them;
they are simple, homely, plump lies; plain working lies, in short. But
in the service of such a master as Don Quixote he develops rapidly, as
we see when he comes to palm off the three country wenches as Dulcinea
and her ladies in waiting. It is worth noticing how, flushed by his
success in this instance, he is tempted afterwards to try a flight
beyond his powers in his account of the journey on Clavileño.
In the Second Part it is the spirit rather than the incidents of the
chivalry romances that is the subject of the burlesque. Enchantments of
the sort travestied in those of Dulcinea and the Trifaldi and the cave
of Montesinos play a leading part in the later and inferior romances,
and another distinguishing feature is caricatured in Don Quixote’s
blind adoration of Dulcinea. In the romances of chivalry love is either
a mere animalism or a fantastic idolatry. Only a coarse-minded man
would care to make merry with the former, but to one of Cervantes’
humour the latter was naturally an attractive subject for ridicule.
Like everything else in these romances, it is a gross exaggeration of
the real sentiment of chivalry, but its peculiar extravagance is
probably due to the influence of those masters of hyperbole, the
Provencal poets. When a troubadour professed his readiness to obey his
lady in all things, he made it incumbent upon the next comer, if he
wished to avoid the imputation of tameness and commonplace, to declare
himself the slave of her will, which the next was compelled to cap by
some still stronger declaration; and so expressions of devotion went on
rising one above the other like biddings at an auction, and a
conventional language of gallantry and theory of love came into being
that in time permeated the literature of Southern Europe, and bore
fruit, in one direction in the transcendental worship of Beatrice and
Laura, and in another in the grotesque idolatry which found exponents
in writers like Feliciano de Silva. This is what Cervantes deals with
in Don Quixote’s passion for Dulcinea, and in no instance has he
carried out the burlesque more happily. By keeping Dulcinea in the
background, and making her a vague shadowy being of whose very
existence we are left in doubt, he invests Don Quixote’s worship of her
virtues and charms with an additional extravagance, and gives still
more point to the caricature of the sentiment and language of the
romances.
One of the great merits of “Don Quixote,” and one of the qualities that
have secured its acceptance by all classes of readers and made it the
most cosmopolitan of books, is its simplicity. There are, of course,
points obvious enough to a Spanish seventeenth century audience which
do not immediately strike a reader now-a-days, and Cervantes often
takes it for granted that an allusion will be generally understood
which is only intelligible to a few. For example, on many of his
readers in Spain, and most of his readers out of it, the significance
of his choice of a country for his hero is completely lost. It would be
going too far to say that no one can thoroughly comprehend “Don
Quixote” without having seen La Mancha, but undoubtedly even a glimpse
of La Mancha will give an insight into the meaning of Cervantes such as
no commentator can give. Of all the regions of Spain it is the last
that would suggest the idea of romance. Of all the dull central plateau
of the Peninsula it is the dullest tract. There is something impressive
about the grim solitudes of Estremadura; and if the plains of Leon and
Old Castile are bald and dreary, they are studded with old cities
renowned in history and rich in relics of the past. But there is no
redeeming feature in the Manchegan landscape; it has all the sameness
of the desert without its dignity; the few towns and villages that
break its monotony are mean and commonplace, there is nothing venerable
about them, they have not even the picturesqueness of poverty; indeed,
Don Quixote’s own village, Argamasilla, has a sort of oppressive
respectability in the prim regularity of its streets and houses;
everything is ignoble; the very windmills are the ugliest and shabbiest
of the windmill kind.
To anyone who knew the country well, the mere style and title of “Don
Quixote of La Mancha” gave the key to the author’s meaning at once. La
Mancha as the knight’s country and scene of his chivalries is of a
piece with the pasteboard helmet, the farm-labourer on ass-back for a
squire, knighthood conferred by a rascally ventero, convicts taken for
victims of oppression, and the rest of the incongruities between Don
Quixote’s world and the world he lived in, between things as he saw
them and things as they were.
It is strange that this element of incongruity, underlying the whole
humour and purpose of the book, should have been so little heeded by
the majority of those who have undertaken to interpret “Don Quixote.”
It has been completely overlooked, for example, by the illustrators. To
be sure, the great majority of the artists who illustrated “Don
Quixote” knew nothing whatever of Spain. To them a venta conveyed no
idea but the abstract one of a roadside inn, and they could not
therefore do full justice to the humour of Don Quixote’s misconception
in taking it for a castle, or perceive the remoteness of all its
realities from his ideal. But even when better informed they seem to
have no apprehension of the full force of the discrepancy. Take, for
instance, Gustave Doré’s drawing of Don Quixote watching his armour in
the inn-yard. Whether or not the Venta de Quesada on the Seville road
is, as tradition maintains, the inn described in “Don Quixote,” beyond
all question it was just such an inn-yard as the one behind it that
Cervantes had in his mind’s eye, and it was on just such a rude stone
trough as that beside the primitive draw-well in the corner that he
meant Don Quixote to deposit his armour. Gustave Doré makes it an
elaborate fountain such as no arriero ever watered his mules at in the
corral of any venta in Spain, and thereby entirely misses the point
aimed at by Cervantes. It is the mean, prosaic, commonplace character
of all the surroundings and circumstances that gives a significance to
Don Quixote’s vigil and the ceremony that follows.
Cervantes’ humour is for the most part of that broader and simpler
sort, the strength of which lies in the perception of the incongruous.
It is the incongruity of Sancho in all his ways, words, and works, with
the ideas and aims of his master, quite as much as the wonderful
vitality and truth to nature of the character, that makes him the most
humorous creation in the whole range of fiction. That unsmiling gravity
of which Cervantes was the first great master, “Cervantes’ serious
air,” which sits naturally on Swift alone, perhaps, of later
humourists, is essential to this kind of humour, and here again
Cervantes has suffered at the hands of his interpreters. Nothing,
unless indeed the coarse buffoonery of Phillips, could be more out of
place in an attempt to represent Cervantes, than a flippant, would-be
facetious style, like that of Motteux’s version for example, or the
sprightly, jaunty air, French translators sometimes adopt. It is the
grave matter-of-factness of the narrative, and the apparent
unconsciousness of the author that he is saying anything ludicrous,
anything but the merest commonplace, that give its peculiar flavour to
the humour of Cervantes. His, in fact, is the exact opposite of the
humour of Sterne and the self-conscious humourists. Even when Uncle
Toby is at his best, you are always aware of “the man Sterne” behind
him, watching you over his shoulder to see what effect he is producing.
Cervantes always leaves you alone with Don Quixote and Sancho. He and
Swift and the great humourists always keep themselves out of sight, or,
more properly speaking, never think about themselves at all, unlike our
latter-day school of humourists, who seem to have revived the old
horse-collar method, and try to raise a laugh by some grotesque
assumption of ignorance, imbecility, or bad taste.
It is true that to do full justice to Spanish humour in any other
language is well-nigh an impossibility. There is a natural gravity and
a sonorous stateliness about Spanish, be it ever so colloquial, that
make an absurdity doubly absurd, and give plausibility to the most
preposterous statement. This is what makes Sancho Panza’s drollery the
despair of the conscientious translator. Sancho’s curt comments can
never fall flat, but they lose half their flavour when transferred from
their native Castilian into any other medium. But if foreigners have
failed to do justice to the humour of Cervantes, they are no worse than
his own countrymen. Indeed, were it not for the Spanish peasant’s
relish of “Don Quixote,” one might be tempted to think that the great
humourist was not looked upon as a humourist at all in his own country.
The craze of Don Quixote seems, in some instances, to have communicated
itself to his critics, making them see things that are not in the book
and run full tilt at phantoms that have no existence save in their own
imaginations. Like a good many critics now-a-days, they forget that
screams are not criticism, and that it is only vulgar tastes that are
influenced by strings of superlatives, three-piled hyperboles, and
pompous epithets. But what strikes one as particularly strange is that
while they deal in extravagant eulogies, and ascribe all manner of
imaginary ideas and qualities to Cervantes, they show no perception of
the quality that ninety-nine out of a hundred of his readers would rate
highest in him, and hold to be the one that raises him above all
rivalry.
To speak of “Don Quixote” as if it were merely a humorous book would be
a manifest misdescription. Cervantes at times makes it a kind of
commonplace book for occasional essays and criticisms, or for the
observations and reflections and gathered wisdom of a long and stirring
life. It is a mine of shrewd observation on mankind and human nature.
Among modern novels there may be, here and there, more elaborate
studies of character, but there is no book richer in individualised
character. What Coleridge said of Shakespeare in minimis is true of
Cervantes; he never, even for the most temporary purpose, puts forward
a lay figure. There is life and individuality in all his characters,
however little they may have to do, or however short a time they may be
before the reader. Samson Carrasco, the curate, Teresa Panza,
Altisidora, even the two students met on the road to the cave of
Montesinos, all live and move and have their being; and it is
characteristic of the broad humanity of Cervantes that there is not a
hateful one among them all. Even poor Maritornes, with her deplorable
morals, has a kind heart of her own and “some faint and distant
resemblance to a Christian about her;” and as for Sancho, though on
dissection we fail to find a lovable trait in him, unless it be a sort
of dog-like affection for his master, who is there that in his heart
does not love him?
But it is, after all, the humour of “Don Quixote” that distinguishes it
from all other books of the romance kind. It is this that makes it, as
one of the most judicial-minded of modern critics calls it, “the best
novel in the world beyond all comparison.” It is its varied humour,
ranging from broad farce to comedy as subtle as Shakespeare’s or
Molière’s that has naturalised it in every country where there are
readers, and made it a classic in every language that has a literature.
THE AUTHOR’S PREFACE
Idle reader: thou mayest believe me without any oath that I would this
book, as it is the child of my brain, were the fairest, gayest, and
cleverest that could be imagined. But I could not counteract Nature’s
law that everything shall beget its like; and what, then, could this
sterile, illtilled wit of mine beget but the story of a dry,
shrivelled, whimsical offspring, full of thoughts of all sorts and such
as never came into any other imagination—just what might be begotten in
a prison, where every misery is lodged and every doleful sound makes
its dwelling? Tranquillity, a cheerful retreat, pleasant fields, bright
skies, murmuring brooks, peace of mind, these are the things that go
far to make even the most barren muses fertile, and bring into the
world births that fill it with wonder and delight. Sometimes when a
father has an ugly, loutish son, the love he bears him so blindfolds
his eyes that he does not see his defects, or, rather, takes them for
gifts and charms of mind and body, and talks of them to his friends as
wit and grace. I, however—for though I pass for the father, I am but
the stepfather to “Don Quixote”—have no desire to go with the current
of custom, or to implore thee, dearest reader, almost with tears in my
eyes, as others do, to pardon or excuse the defects thou wilt perceive
in this child of mine. Thou art neither its kinsman nor its friend, thy
soul is thine own and thy will as free as any man’s, whate’er he be,
thou art in thine own house and master of it as much as the king of his
taxes and thou knowest the common saying, “Under my cloak I kill the
king;” all which exempts and frees thee from every consideration and
obligation, and thou canst say what thou wilt of the story without fear
of being abused for any ill or rewarded for any good thou mayest say of
it.
My wish would be simply to present it to thee plain and unadorned,
without any embellishment of preface or uncountable muster of customary
sonnets, epigrams, and eulogies, such as are commonly put at the
beginning of books. For I can tell thee, though composing it cost me
some labour, I found none greater than the making of this Preface thou
art now reading. Many times did I take up my pen to write it, and many
did I lay it down again, not knowing what to write. One of these times,
as I was pondering with the paper before me, a pen in my ear, my elbow
on the desk, and my cheek in my hand, thinking of what I should say,
there came in unexpectedly a certain lively, clever friend of mine,
who, seeing me so deep in thought, asked the reason; to which I, making
no mystery of it, answered that I was thinking of the Preface I had to
make for the story of “Don Quixote,” which so troubled me that I had a
mind not to make any at all, nor even publish the achievements of so
noble a knight.
“For, how could you expect me not to feel uneasy about what that
ancient lawgiver they call the Public will say when it sees me, after
slumbering so many years in the silence of oblivion, coming out now
with all my years upon my back, and with a book as dry as a rush,
devoid of invention, meagre in style, poor in thoughts, wholly wanting
in learning and wisdom, without quotations in the margin or annotations
at the end, after the fashion of other books I see, which, though all
fables and profanity, are so full of maxims from Aristotle, and Plato,
and the whole herd of philosophers, that they fill the readers with
amazement and convince them that the authors are men of learning,
erudition, and eloquence. And then, when they quote the Holy
Scriptures!—anyone would say they are St. Thomases or other doctors of
the Church, observing as they do a decorum so ingenious that in one
sentence they describe a distracted lover and in the next deliver a
devout little sermon that it is a pleasure and a treat to hear and
read. Of all this there will be nothing in my book, for I have nothing
to quote in the margin or to note at the end, and still less do I know
what authors I follow in it, to place them at the beginning, as all do,
under the letters A, B, C, beginning with Aristotle and ending with
Xenophon, or Zoilus, or Zeuxis, though one was a slanderer and the
other a painter. Also my book must do without sonnets at the beginning,
at least sonnets whose authors are dukes, marquises, counts, bishops,
ladies, or famous poets. Though if I were to ask two or three obliging
friends, I know they would give me them, and such as the productions of
those that have the highest reputation in our Spain could not equal.
“In short, my friend,” I continued, “I am determined that Señor Don
Quixote shall remain buried in the archives of his own La Mancha until
Heaven provide someone to garnish him with all those things he stands
in need of; because I find myself, through my shallowness and want of
learning, unequal to supplying them, and because I am by nature shy and
careless about hunting for authors to say what I myself can say without
them. Hence the cogitation and abstraction you found me in, and reason
enough, what you have heard from me.”
Hearing this, my friend, giving himself a slap on the forehead and
breaking into a hearty laugh, exclaimed, “Before God, Brother, now am I
disabused of an error in which I have been living all this long time I
have known you, all through which I have taken you to be shrewd and
sensible in all you do; but now I see you are as far from that as the
heaven is from the earth. Is it possible that things of so little
moment and so easy to set right can occupy and perplex a ripe wit like
yours, fit to break through and crush far greater obstacles? By my
faith, this comes, not of any want of ability, but of too much
indolence and too little knowledge of life. Do you want to know if I am
telling the truth? Well, then, attend to me, and you will see how, in
the opening and shutting of an eye, I sweep away all your difficulties,
and supply all those deficiencies which you say check and discourage
you from bringing before the world the story of your famous Don
Quixote, the light and mirror of all knight-errantry.”
“Say on,” said I, listening to his talk; “how do you propose to make up
for my diffidence, and reduce to order this chaos of perplexity I am
in?”
To which he made answer, “Your first difficulty about the sonnets,
epigrams, or complimentary verses which you want for the beginning, and
which ought to be by persons of importance and rank, can be removed if
you yourself take a little trouble to make them; you can afterwards
baptise them, and put any name you like to them, fathering them on
Prester John of the Indies or the Emperor of Trebizond, who, to my
knowledge, were said to have been famous poets: and even if they were
not, and any pedants or bachelors should attack you and question the
fact, never care two maravedis for that, for even if they prove a lie
against you they cannot cut off the hand you wrote it with.
“As to references in the margin to the books and authors from whom you
take the aphorisms and sayings you put into your story, it is only
contriving to fit in nicely any sentences or scraps of Latin you may
happen to have by heart, or at any rate that will not give you much
trouble to look up; so as, when you speak of freedom and captivity, to
insert
_Non bene pro toto libertas venditur auro;_
and then refer in the margin to Horace, or whoever said it; or, if you
allude to the power of death, to come in with—
_Pallida mors æquo pulsat pede pauperum tabernas,
Regumque turres._
“If it be friendship and the love God bids us bear to our enemy, go at
once to the Holy Scriptures, which you can do with a very small amount
of research, and quote no less than the words of God himself: _Ego
autem dico vobis: diligite inimicos vestros._ If you speak of evil
thoughts, turn to the Gospel: _De corde exeunt cogitationes malæ._ If
of the fickleness of friends, there is Cato, who will give you his
distich:
_Donec eris felix multos numerabis amicos,
Tempora si fuerint nubila, solus eris._
“With these and such like bits of Latin they will take you for a
grammarian at all events, and that now-a-days is no small honour and
profit.
“With regard to adding annotations at the end of the book, you may
safely do it in this way. If you mention any giant in your book
contrive that it shall be the giant Goliath, and with this alone, which
will cost you almost nothing, you have a grand note, for you can
put—_The giant Golias or Goliath was a Philistine whom the shepherd
David slew by a mighty stone-cast in the Terebinth valley, as is
related in the Book of Kings_—in the chapter where you find it written.
“Next, to prove yourself a man of erudition in polite literature and
cosmography, manage that the river Tagus shall be named in your story,
and there you are at once with another famous annotation, setting
forth—_The river Tagus was so called after a King of Spain: it has its
source in such and such a place and falls into the ocean, kissing the
walls of the famous city of Lisbon, and it is a common belief that it
has golden sands_, etc. If you should have anything to do with robbers,
I will give you the story of Cacus, for I have it by heart; if with
loose women, there is the Bishop of Mondonedo, who will give you the
loan of Lamia, Laida, and Flora, any reference to whom will bring you
great credit; if with hard-hearted ones, Ovid will furnish you with
Medea; if with witches or enchantresses, Homer has Calypso, and Virgil
Circe; if with valiant captains, Julius Cæsar himself will lend you
himself in his own ‘Commentaries,’ and Plutarch will give you a
thousand Alexanders. If you should deal with love, with two ounces you
may know of Tuscan you can go to Leon the Hebrew, who will supply you
to your heart’s content; or if you should not care to go to foreign
countries you have at home Fonseca’s ‘Of the Love of God,’ in which is
condensed all that you or the most imaginative mind can want on the
subject. In short, all you have to do is to manage to quote these
names, or refer to these stories I have mentioned, and leave it to me
to insert the annotations and quotations, and I swear by all that’s
good to fill your margins and use up four sheets at the end of the
book.
“Now let us come to those references to authors which other books have,
and you want for yours. The remedy for this is very simple: You have
only to look out for some book that quotes them all, from A to Z as you
say yourself, and then insert the very same alphabet in your book, and
though the imposition may be plain to see, because you have so little
need to borrow from them, that is no matter; there will probably be
some simple enough to believe that you have made use of them all in
this plain, artless story of yours. At any rate, if it answers no other
purpose, this long catalogue of authors will serve to give a surprising
look of authority to your book. Besides, no one will trouble himself to
verify whether you have followed them or whether you have not, being no
way concerned in it; especially as, if I mistake not, this book of
yours has no need of any one of those things you say it wants, for it
is, from beginning to end, an attack upon the books of chivalry, of
which Aristotle never dreamt, nor St. Basil said a word, nor Cicero had
any knowledge; nor do the niceties of truth nor the observations of
astrology come within the range of its fanciful vagaries; nor have
geometrical measurements or refutations of the arguments used in
rhetoric anything to do with it; nor does it mean to preach to anybody,
mixing up things human and divine, a sort of motley in which no
Christian understanding should dress itself. It has only to avail
itself of truth to nature in its composition, and the more perfect the
imitation the better the work will be. And as this piece of yours aims
at nothing more than to destroy the authority and influence which books
of chivalry have in the world and with the public, there is no need for
you to go a-begging for aphorisms from philosophers, precepts from Holy
Scripture, fables from poets, speeches from orators, or miracles from
saints; but merely to take care that your style and diction run
musically, pleasantly, and plainly, with clear, proper, and well-placed
words, setting forth your purpose to the best of your power, and
putting your ideas intelligibly, without confusion or obscurity.
Strive, too, that in reading your story the melancholy may be moved to
laughter, and the merry made merrier still; that the simple shall not
be wearied, that the judicious shall admire the invention, that the
grave shall not despise it, nor the wise fail to praise it. Finally,
keep your aim fixed on the destruction of that ill-founded edifice of
the books of chivalry, hated by some and praised by many more; for if
you succeed in this you will have achieved no small success.”
In profound silence I listened to what my friend said, and his
observations made such an impression on me that, without attempting to
question them, I admitted their soundness, and out of them I determined
to make this Preface; wherein, gentle reader, thou wilt perceive my
friend’s good sense, my good fortune in finding such an adviser in such
a time of need, and what thou hast gained in receiving, without
addition or alteration, the story of the famous Don Quixote of La
Mancha, who is held by all the inhabitants of the district of the Campo
de Montiel to have been the chastest lover and the bravest knight that
has for many years been seen in that neighbourhood. I have no desire to
magnify the service I render thee in making thee acquainted with so
renowned and honoured a knight, but I do desire thy thanks for the
acquaintance thou wilt make with the famous Sancho Panza, his squire,
in whom, to my thinking, I have given thee condensed all the squirely
drolleries that are scattered through the swarm of the vain books of
chivalry. And so—may God give thee health, and not forget me. Vale.
SOME COMMENDATORY VERSES
URGANDA THE UNKNOWN
To the book of Don Quixote of la Mancha
If to be welcomed by the good,
O Book! thou make thy steady aim,
No empty chatterer will dare
To question or dispute thy claim.
But if perchance thou hast a mind
To win of idiots approbation,
Lost labour will be thy reward,
Though they’ll pretend appreciation.
They say a goodly shade he finds
Who shelters ’neath a goodly tree;
And such a one thy kindly star
In Bejar bath provided thee:
A royal tree whose spreading boughs
A show of princely fruit display;
A tree that bears a noble Duke,
The Alexander of his day.
Of a Manchegan gentleman
Thy purpose is to tell the story,
Relating how he lost his wits
O’er idle tales of love and glory,
Of “ladies, arms, and cavaliers:”
A new Orlando Furioso—
Innamorato, rather—who
Won Dulcinea del Toboso.
Put no vain emblems on thy shield;
All figures—that is bragging play.
A modest dedication make,
And give no scoffer room to say,
“What! Álvaro de Luna here?
Or is it Hannibal again?
Or does King Francis at Madrid
Once more of destiny complain?”
Since Heaven it hath not pleased on thee
Deep erudition to bestow,
Or black Latino’s gift of tongues,
No Latin let thy pages show.
Ape not philosophy or wit,
Lest one who cannot comprehend,
Make a wry face at thee and ask,
“Why offer flowers to me, my friend?”
Be not a meddler; no affair
Of thine the life thy neighbours lead:
Be prudent; oft the random jest
Recoils upon the jester’s head.
Thy constant labour let it be
To earn thyself an honest name,
For fooleries preserved in print
Are perpetuity of shame.
A further counsel bear in mind:
If that thy roof be made of glass,
It shows small wit to pick up stones
To pelt the people as they pass.
Win the attention of the wise,
And give the thinker food for thought;
Whoso indites frivolities,
Will but by simpletons be sought.
AMADIS OF GAUL
To Don Quixote of la Mancha
SONNET
Thou that didst imitate that life of mine
When I in lonely sadness on the great
Rock Peña Pobre sat disconsolate,
In self-imposed penance there to pine;
Thou, whose sole beverage was the bitter brine
Of thine own tears, and who withouten plate
Of silver, copper, tin, in lowly state
Off the bare earth and on earth’s fruits didst dine;
Live thou, of thine eternal glory sure.
So long as on the round of the fourth sphere
The bright Apollo shall his coursers steer,
In thy renown thou shalt remain secure,
Thy country’s name in story shall endure,
And thy sage author stand without a peer.
DON BELIANIS OF GREECE
To Don Quixote of la Mancha
SONNET
In slashing, hewing, cleaving, word and deed,
I was the foremost knight of chivalry,
Stout, bold, expert, as e’er the world did see;
Thousands from the oppressor’s wrong I freed;
Great were my feats, eternal fame their meed;
In love I proved my truth and loyalty;
The hugest giant was a dwarf for me;
Ever to knighthood’s laws gave I good heed.
My mastery the Fickle Goddess owned,
And even Chance, submitting to control,
Grasped by the forelock, yielded to my will.
Yet—though above yon horned moon enthroned
My fortune seems to sit—great Quixote, still
Envy of thy achievements fills my soul.
THE LADY OF ORIANA
To Dulcinea del Toboso
SONNET
Oh, fairest Dulcinea, could it be!
It were a pleasant fancy to suppose so—
Could Miraflores change to El Toboso,
And London’s town to that which shelters thee!
Oh, could mine but acquire that livery
Of countless charms thy mind and body show so!
Or him, now famous grown—thou mad’st him grow so—
Thy knight, in some dread combat could I see!
Oh, could I be released from Amadis
By exercise of such coy chastity
As led thee gentle Quixote to dismiss!
Then would my heavy sorrow turn to joy;
None would I envy, all would envy me,
And happiness be mine without alloy.
GANDALIN, SQUIRE OF AMADIS OF GAUL,
To Sancho Panza, squire of Don Quixote
SONNET
All hail, illustrious man! Fortune, when she
Bound thee apprentice to the esquire trade,
Her care and tenderness of thee displayed,
Shaping thy course from misadventure free.
No longer now doth proud knight-errantry
Regard with scorn the sickle and the spade;
Of towering arrogance less count is made
Than of plain esquire-like simplicity.
I envy thee thy Dapple, and thy name,
And those alforjas thou wast wont to stuff
With comforts that thy providence proclaim.
Excellent Sancho! hail to thee again!
To thee alone the Ovid of our Spain
Does homage with the rustic kiss and cuff.
FROM EL DONOSO, THE MOTLEY POET,
On Sancho Panza and Rocinante
ON SANCHO
I am the esquire Sancho Pan—
Who served Don Quixote of La Man—;
But from his service I retreat—,
Resolved to pass my life discreet—;
For Villadiego, called the Si—,
Maintained that only in reti—
Was found the secret of well-be—,
According to the “Celesti—:”
A book divine, except for sin—
By speech too plain, in my opin—
ON ROCINANTE
I am that Rocinante fa—,
Great-grandson of great Babie—,
Who, all for being lean and bon—,
Had one Don Quixote for an own—;
But if I matched him well in weak—,
I never took short commons meek—,
But kept myself in corn by steal—,
A trick I learned from Lazaril—,
When with a piece of straw so neat—
The blind man of his wine he cheat—.
ORLANDO FURIOSO
To Don Quixote of La Mancha
SONNET
If thou art not a Peer, peer thou hast none;
Among a thousand Peers thou art a peer;
Nor is there room for one when thou art near,
Unvanquished victor, great unconquered one!
Orlando, by Angelica undone,
Am I; o’er distant seas condemned to steer,
And to Fame’s altars as an offering bear
Valour respected by Oblivion.
I cannot be thy rival, for thy fame
And prowess rise above all rivalry,
Albeit both bereft of wits we go.
But, though the Scythian or the Moor to tame
Was not thy lot, still thou dost rival me:
Love binds us in a fellowship of woe.
THE KNIGHT OF PHŒBUS
To Don Quixote of La Mancha
My sword was not to be compared with thine
Phœbus of Spain, marvel of courtesy,
Nor with thy famous arm this hand of mine
That smote from east to west as lightnings fly.
I scorned all empire, and that monarchy
The rosy east held out did I resign
For one glance of Claridiana’s eye,
The bright Aurora for whose love I pine.
A miracle of constancy my love;
And banished by her ruthless cruelty,
This arm had might the rage of Hell to tame.
But, Gothic Quixote, happier thou dost prove,
For thou dost live in Dulcinea’s name,
And famous, honoured, wise, she lives in thee.
FROM SOLISDAN
To Don Quixote of La Mancha
SONNET
Your fantasies, Sir Quixote, it is true,
That crazy brain of yours have quite upset,
But aught of base or mean hath never yet
Been charged by any in reproach to you.
Your deeds are open proof in all men’s view;
For you went forth injustice to abate,
And for your pains sore drubbings did you get
From many a rascally and ruffian crew.
If the fair Dulcinea, your heart’s queen,
Be unrelenting in her cruelty,
If still your woe be powerless to move her,
In such hard case your comfort let it be
That Sancho was a sorry go-between:
A booby he, hard-hearted she, and you no lover.
DIALOGUE
Between Babieca and Rocinante
SONNET
_B_. “How comes it, Rocinante, you’re so lean?”
_R_. “I’m underfed, with overwork I’m worn.”
_B_. “But what becomes of all the hay and corn?”
_R_. “My master gives me none; he’s much too mean.”
_B_. “Come, come, you show ill-breeding, sir, I ween;
’Tis like an ass your master thus to scorn.”
_R_. He is an ass, will die an ass, an ass was born;
Why, he’s in love; what’s plainer to be seen?”
_B_. “To be in love is folly?”—_R_. “No great sense.”
_B_. “You’re metaphysical.”—_R_. “From want of food.”
_B_. “Rail at the squire, then.”—_R_. “Why, what’s the good?
I might indeed complain of him, I grant ye,
But, squire or master, where’s the difference?
They’re both as sorry hacks as Rocinante.”
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DEDICATION OF PART I
TO THE DUKE OF BEJAR, MARQUIS OF GIBRALEON, COUNT OF BENALCAZAR AND
BANARES, VICECOUNT OF THE PUEBLA DE ALCOCER, MASTER OF THE TOWNS OF
CAPILLA, CURIEL AND BURGUILLOS
In belief of the good reception and honours that Your Excellency
bestows on all sort of books, as prince so inclined to favor good arts,
chiefly those who by their nobleness do not submit to the service and
bribery of the vulgar, I have determined bringing to light The
Ingenious Gentleman Don Quixote of la Mancha, in shelter of Your
Excellency’s glamorous name, to whom, with the obeisance I owe to such
grandeur, I pray to receive it agreeably under his protection, so that
in this shadow, though deprived of that precious ornament of elegance
and erudition that clothe the works composed in the houses of those who
know, it dares appear with assurance in the judgment of some who,
trespassing the bounds of their own ignorance, use to condemn with more
rigour and less justice the writings of others. It is my earnest hope
that Your Excellency’s good counsel in regard to my honourable purpose,
will not disdain the littleness of so humble a service.
Miguel de Cervantes
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CHAPTER I.
WHICH TREATS OF THE CHARACTER AND PURSUITS OF THE FAMOUS GENTLEMAN DON
QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA
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In a village of La Mancha, the name of which I have no desire to call
to mind, there lived not long since one of those gentlemen that keep a
lance in the lance-rack, an old buckler, a lean hack, and a greyhound
for coursing. An olla of rather more beef than mutton, a salad on most
nights, scraps on Saturdays, lentils on Fridays, and a pigeon or so
extra on Sundays, made away with three-quarters of his income. The rest
of it went in a doublet of fine cloth and velvet breeches and shoes to
match for holidays, while on week-days he made a brave figure in his
best homespun. He had in his house a housekeeper past forty, a niece
under twenty, and a lad for the field and market-place, who used to
saddle the hack as well as handle the bill-hook. The age of this
gentleman of ours was bordering on fifty; he was of a hardy habit,
spare, gaunt-featured, a very early riser and a great sportsman. They
will have it his surname was Quixada or Quesada (for here there is some
difference of opinion among the authors who write on the subject),
although from reasonable conjectures it seems plain that he was called
Quexana. This, however, is of but little importance to our tale; it
will be enough not to stray a hair’s breadth from the truth in the
telling of it.
You must know, then, that the above-named gentleman whenever he was at
leisure (which was mostly all the year round) gave himself up to
reading books of chivalry with such ardour and avidity that he almost
entirely neglected the pursuit of his field-sports, and even the
management of his property; and to such a pitch did his eagerness and
infatuation go that he sold many an acre of tillageland to buy books of
chivalry to read, and brought home as many of them as he could get. But
of all there were none he liked so well as those of the famous
Feliciano de Silva’s composition, for their lucidity of style and
complicated conceits were as pearls in his sight, particularly when in
his reading he came upon courtships and cartels, where he often found
passages like “_the reason of the unreason with which my reason is
afflicted so weakens my reason that with reason I murmur at your
beauty;” or again, “the high heavens, that of your divinity divinely
fortify you with the stars, render you deserving of the desert your
greatness deserves_.” Over conceits of this sort the poor gentleman
lost his wits, and used to lie awake striving to understand them and
worm the meaning out of them; what Aristotle himself could not have
made out or extracted had he come to life again for that special
purpose. He was not at all easy about the wounds which Don Belianis
gave and took, because it seemed to him that, great as were the
surgeons who had cured him, he must have had his face and body covered
all over with seams and scars. He commended, however, the author’s way
of ending his book with the promise of that interminable adventure, and
many a time was he tempted to take up his pen and finish it properly as
is there proposed, which no doubt he would have done, and made a
successful piece of work of it too, had not greater and more absorbing
thoughts prevented him.
Many an argument did he have with the curate of his village (a learned
man, and a graduate of Siguenza) as to which had been the better
knight, Palmerin of England or Amadis of Gaul. Master Nicholas, the
village barber, however, used to say that neither of them came up to
the Knight of Phœbus, and that if there was any that could compare with
_him_ it was Don Galaor, the brother of Amadis of Gaul, because he had
a spirit that was equal to every occasion, and was no finikin knight,
nor lachrymose like his brother, while in the matter of valour he was
not a whit behind him. In short, he became so absorbed in his books
that he spent his nights from sunset to sunrise, and his days from dawn
to dark, poring over them; and what with little sleep and much reading
his brains got so dry that he lost his wits. His fancy grew full of
what he used to read about in his books, enchantments, quarrels,
battles, challenges, wounds, wooings, loves, agonies, and all sorts of
impossible nonsense; and it so possessed his mind that the whole fabric
of invention and fancy he read of was true, that to him no history in
the world had more reality in it. He used to say the Cid Ruy Diaz was a
very good knight, but that he was not to be compared with the Knight of
the Burning Sword who with one back-stroke cut in half two fierce and
monstrous giants. He thought more of Bernardo del Carpio because at
Roncesvalles he slew Roland in spite of enchantments, availing himself
of the artifice of Hercules when he strangled Antæus the son of Terra
in his arms. He approved highly of the giant Morgante, because,
although of the giant breed which is always arrogant and
ill-conditioned, he alone was affable and well-bred. But above all he
admired Reinaldos of Montalban, especially when he saw him sallying
forth from his castle and robbing everyone he met, and when beyond the
seas he stole that image of Mahomet which, as his history says, was
entirely of gold. To have a bout of kicking at that traitor of a
Ganelon he would have given his housekeeper, and his niece into the
bargain.
In short, his wits being quite gone, he hit upon the strangest notion
that ever madman in this world hit upon, and that was that he fancied
it was right and requisite, as well for the support of his own honour
as for the service of his country, that he should make a knight-errant
of himself, roaming the world over in full armour and on horseback in
quest of adventures, and putting in practice himself all that he had
read of as being the usual practices of knights-errant; righting every
kind of wrong, and exposing himself to peril and danger from which, in
the issue, he was to reap eternal renown and fame. Already the poor man
saw himself crowned by the might of his arm Emperor of Trebizond at
least; and so, led away by the intense enjoyment he found in these
pleasant fancies, he set himself forthwith to put his scheme into
execution.
The first thing he did was to clean up some armour that had belonged to
his great-grandfather, and had been for ages lying forgotten in a
corner eaten with rust and covered with mildew. He scoured and polished
it as best he could, but he perceived one great defect in it, that it
had no closed helmet, nothing but a simple morion. This deficiency,
however, his ingenuity supplied, for he contrived a kind of half-helmet
of pasteboard which, fitted on to the morion, looked like a whole one.
It is true that, in order to see if it was strong and fit to stand a
cut, he drew his sword and gave it a couple of slashes, the first of
which undid in an instant what had taken him a week to do. The ease
with which he had knocked it to pieces disconcerted him somewhat, and
to guard against that danger he set to work again, fixing bars of iron
on the inside until he was satisfied with its strength; and then, not
caring to try any more experiments with it, he passed it and adopted it
as a helmet of the most perfect construction.
He next proceeded to inspect his hack, which, with more quartos than a
real and more blemishes than the steed of Gonela, that “_tantum pellis
et ossa fuit_,” surpassed in his eyes the Bucephalus of Alexander or
the Babieca of the Cid. Four days were spent in thinking what name to
give him, because (as he said to himself) it was not right that a horse
belonging to a knight so famous, and one with such merits of his own,
should be without some distinctive name, and he strove to adapt it so
as to indicate what he had been before belonging to a knight-errant,
and what he then was; for it was only reasonable that, his master
taking a new character, he should take a new name, and that it should
be a distinguished and full-sounding one, befitting the new order and
calling he was about to follow. And so, after having composed, struck
out, rejected, added to, unmade, and remade a multitude of names out of
his memory and fancy, he decided upon calling him Rocinante, a name, to
his thinking, lofty, sonorous, and significant of his condition as a
hack before he became what he now was, the first and foremost of all
the hacks in the world.
Having got a name for his horse so much to his taste, he was anxious to
get one for himself, and he was eight days more pondering over this
point, till at last he made up his mind to call himself “Don Quixote,”
whence, as has been already said, the authors of this veracious history
have inferred that his name must have been beyond a doubt Quixada, and
not Quesada as others would have it. Recollecting, however, that the
valiant Amadis was not content to call himself curtly Amadis and
nothing more, but added the name of his kingdom and country to make it
famous, and called himself Amadis of Gaul, he, like a good knight,
resolved to add on the name of his, and to style himself Don Quixote of
La Mancha, whereby, he considered, he described accurately his origin
and country, and did honour to it in taking his surname from it.
So then, his armour being furbished, his morion turned into a helmet,
his hack christened, and he himself confirmed, he came to the
conclusion that nothing more was needed now but to look out for a lady
to be in love with; for a knight-errant without love was like a tree
without leaves or fruit, or a body without a soul. As he said to
himself, “If, for my sins, or by my good fortune, I come across some
giant hereabouts, a common occurrence with knights-errant, and
overthrow him in one onslaught, or cleave him asunder to the waist, or,
in short, vanquish and subdue him, will it not be well to have someone
I may send him to as a present, that he may come in and fall on his
knees before my sweet lady, and in a humble, submissive voice say, ‘I
am the giant Caraculiambro, lord of the island of Malindrania,
vanquished in single combat by the never sufficiently extolled knight
Don Quixote of La Mancha, who has commanded me to present myself before
your Grace, that your Highness dispose of me at your pleasure’?” Oh,
how our good gentleman enjoyed the delivery of this speech, especially
when he had thought of someone to call his Lady! There was, so the
story goes, in a village near his own a very good-looking farm-girl
with whom he had been at one time in love, though, so far as is known,
she never knew it nor gave a thought to the matter. Her name was
Aldonza Lorenzo, and upon her he thought fit to confer the title of
Lady of his Thoughts; and after some search for a name which should not
be out of harmony with her own, and should suggest and indicate that of
a princess and great lady, he decided upon calling her Dulcinea del
Toboso—she being of El Toboso—a name, to his mind, musical, uncommon,
and significant, like all those he had already bestowed upon himself
and the things belonging to him.
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CHAPTER II.
WHICH TREATS OF THE FIRST SALLY THE INGENIOUS DON QUIXOTE MADE FROM
HOME
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These preliminaries settled, he did not care to put off any longer the
execution of his design, urged on to it by the thought of all the world
was losing by his delay, seeing what wrongs he intended to right,
grievances to redress, injustices to repair, abuses to remove, and
duties to discharge. So, without giving notice of his intention to
anyone, and without anybody seeing him, one morning before the dawning
of the day (which was one of the hottest of the month of July) he
donned his suit of armour, mounted Rocinante with his patched-up helmet
on, braced his buckler, took his lance, and by the back door of the
yard sallied forth upon the plain in the highest contentment and
satisfaction at seeing with what ease he had made a beginning with his
grand purpose. But scarcely did he find himself upon the open plain,
when a terrible thought struck him, one all but enough to make him
abandon the enterprise at the very outset. It occurred to him that he
had not been dubbed a knight, and that according to the law of chivalry
he neither could nor ought to bear arms against any knight; and that
even if he had been, still he ought, as a novice knight, to wear white
armour, without a device upon the shield until by his prowess he had
earned one. These reflections made him waver in his purpose, but his
craze being stronger than any reasoning, he made up his mind to have
himself dubbed a knight by the first one he came across, following the
example of others in the same case, as he had read in the books that
brought him to this pass. As for white armour, he resolved, on the
first opportunity, to scour his until it was whiter than an ermine; and
so comforting himself he pursued his way, taking that which his horse
chose, for in this he believed lay the essence of adventures.
Thus setting out, our new-fledged adventurer paced along, talking to
himself and saying, “Who knows but that in time to come, when the
veracious history of my famous deeds is made known, the sage who writes
it, when he has to set forth my first sally in the early morning, will
do it after this fashion? ‘Scarce had the rubicund Apollo spread o’er
the face of the broad spacious earth the golden threads of his bright
hair, scarce had the little birds of painted plumage attuned their
notes to hail with dulcet and mellifluous harmony the coming of the
rosy Dawn, that, deserting the soft couch of her jealous spouse, was
appearing to mortals at the gates and balconies of the Manchegan
horizon, when the renowned knight Don Quixote of La Mancha, quitting
the lazy down, mounted his celebrated steed Rocinante and began to
traverse the ancient and famous Campo de Montiel;’” which in fact he
was actually traversing. “Happy the age, happy the time,” he continued,
“in which shall be made known my deeds of fame, worthy to be moulded in
brass, carved in marble, limned in pictures, for a memorial for ever.
And thou, O sage magician, whoever thou art, to whom it shall fall to
be the chronicler of this wondrous history, forget not, I entreat thee,
my good Rocinante, the constant companion of my ways and wanderings.”
Presently he broke out again, as if he were love-stricken in earnest,
“O Princess Dulcinea, lady of this captive heart, a grievous wrong hast
thou done me to drive me forth with scorn, and with inexorable obduracy
banish me from the presence of thy beauty. O lady, deign to hold in
remembrance this heart, thy vassal, that thus in anguish pines for love
of thee.”
So he went on stringing together these and other absurdities, all in
the style of those his books had taught him, imitating their language
as well as he could; and all the while he rode so slowly and the sun
mounted so rapidly and with such fervour that it was enough to melt his
brains if he had any. Nearly all day he travelled without anything
remarkable happening to him, at which he was in despair, for he was
anxious to encounter someone at once upon whom to try the might of his
strong arm.
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Writers there are who say the first adventure he met with was that of
Puerto Lapice; others say it was that of the windmills; but what I have
ascertained on this point, and what I have found written in the annals
of La Mancha, is that he was on the road all day, and towards nightfall
his hack and he found themselves dead tired and hungry, when, looking
all around to see if he could discover any castle or shepherd’s shanty
where he might refresh himself and relieve his sore wants, he perceived
not far out of his road an inn, which was as welcome as a star guiding
him to the portals, if not the palaces, of his redemption; and
quickening his pace he reached it just as night was setting in. At the
door were standing two young women, girls of the district as they call
them, on their way to Seville with some carriers who had chanced to
halt that night at the inn; and as, happen what might to our
adventurer, everything he saw or imagined seemed to him to be and to
happen after the fashion of what he read of, the moment he saw the inn
he pictured it to himself as a castle with its four turrets and
pinnacles of shining silver, not forgetting the drawbridge and moat and
all the belongings usually ascribed to castles of the sort. To this
inn, which to him seemed a castle, he advanced, and at a short distance
from it he checked Rocinante, hoping that some dwarf would show himself
upon the battlements, and by sound of trumpet give notice that a knight
was approaching the castle. But seeing that they were slow about it,
and that Rocinante was in a hurry to reach the stable, he made for the
inn door, and perceived the two gay damsels who were standing there,
and who seemed to him to be two fair maidens or lovely ladies taking
their ease at the castle gate.
At this moment it so happened that a swineherd who was going through
the stubbles collecting a drove of pigs (for, without any apology, that
is what they are called) gave a blast of his horn to bring them
together, and forthwith it seemed to Don Quixote to be what he was
expecting, the signal of some dwarf announcing his arrival; and so with
prodigious satisfaction he rode up to the inn and to the ladies, who,
seeing a man of this sort approaching in full armour and with lance and
buckler, were turning in dismay into the inn, when Don Quixote,
guessing their fear by their flight, raising his pasteboard visor,
disclosed his dry dusty visage, and with courteous bearing and gentle
voice addressed them, “Your ladyships need not fly or fear any
rudeness, for that it belongs not to the order of knighthood which I
profess to offer to anyone, much less to highborn maidens as your
appearance proclaims you to be.” The girls were looking at him and
straining their eyes to make out the features which the clumsy visor
obscured, but when they heard themselves called maidens, a thing so
much out of their line, they could not restrain their laughter, which
made Don Quixote wax indignant, and say, “Modesty becomes the fair, and
moreover laughter that has little cause is great silliness; this,
however, I say not to pain or anger you, for my desire is none other
than to serve you.”
The incomprehensible language and the unpromising looks of our cavalier
only increased the ladies’ laughter, and that increased his irritation,
and matters might have gone farther if at that moment the landlord had
not come out, who, being a very fat man, was a very peaceful one. He,
seeing this grotesque figure clad in armour that did not match any more
than his saddle, bridle, lance, buckler, or corselet, was not at all
indisposed to join the damsels in their manifestations of amusement;
but, in truth, standing in awe of such a complicated armament, he
thought it best to speak him fairly, so he said, “Señor Caballero, if
your worship wants lodging, bating the bed (for there is not one in the
inn) there is plenty of everything else here.” Don Quixote, observing
the respectful bearing of the Alcaide of the fortress (for so innkeeper
and inn seemed in his eyes), made answer, “Sir Castellan, for me
anything will suffice, for
‘My armour is my only wear,
My only rest the fray.’”
The host fancied he called him Castellan because he took him for a
“worthy of Castile,” though he was in fact an Andalusian, and one from
the strand of San Lucar, as crafty a thief as Cacus and as full of
tricks as a student or a page. “In that case,” said he,
“‘Your bed is on the flinty rock,
Your sleep to watch alway;’
and if so, you may dismount and safely reckon upon any quantity of
sleeplessness under this roof for a twelvemonth, not to say for a
single night.” So saying, he advanced to hold the stirrup for Don
Quixote, who got down with great difficulty and exertion (for he had
not broken his fast all day), and then charged the host to take great
care of his horse, as he was the best bit of flesh that ever ate bread
in this world. The landlord eyed him over but did not find him as good
as Don Quixote said, nor even half as good; and putting him up in the
stable, he returned to see what might be wanted by his guest, whom the
damsels, who had by this time made their peace with him, were now
relieving of his armour. They had taken off his breastplate and
backpiece, but they neither knew nor saw how to open his gorget or
remove his make-shift helmet, for he had fastened it with green
ribbons, which, as there was no untying the knots, required to be cut.
This, however, he would not by any means consent to, so he remained all
the evening with his helmet on, the drollest and oddest figure that can
be imagined; and while they were removing his armour, taking the
baggages who were about it for ladies of high degree belonging to the
castle, he said to them with great sprightliness:
“Oh, never, surely, was there knight
So served by hand of dame,
As served was he, Don Quixote hight,
When from his town he came;
With maidens waiting on himself,
Princesses on his hack—
—or Rocinante, for that, ladies mine, is my horse’s name, and Don
Quixote of La Mancha is my own; for though I had no intention of
declaring myself until my achievements in your service and honour had
made me known, the necessity of adapting that old ballad of Lancelot to
the present occasion has given you the knowledge of my name altogether
prematurely. A time, however, will come for your ladyships to command
and me to obey, and then the might of my arm will show my desire to
serve you.”
The girls, who were not used to hearing rhetoric of this sort, had
nothing to say in reply; they only asked him if he wanted anything to
eat. “I would gladly eat a bit of something,” said Don Quixote, “for I
feel it would come very seasonably.” The day happened to be a Friday,
and in the whole inn there was nothing but some pieces of the fish they
call in Castile “abadejo,” in Andalusia “bacallao,” and in some places
“curadillo,” and in others “troutlet;” so they asked him if he thought
he could eat troutlet, for there was no other fish to give him. “If
there be troutlets enough,” said Don Quixote, “they will be the same
thing as a trout; for it is all one to me whether I am given eight
reals in small change or a piece of eight; moreover, it may be that
these troutlets are like veal, which is better than beef, or kid, which
is better than goat. But whatever it be let it come quickly, for the
burden and pressure of arms cannot be borne without support to the
inside.” They laid a table for him at the door of the inn for the sake
of the air, and the host brought him a portion of ill-soaked and worse
cooked stockfish, and a piece of bread as black and mouldy as his own
armour; but a laughable sight it was to see him eating, for having his
helmet on and the beaver up, he could not with his own hands put
anything into his mouth unless someone else placed it there, and this
service one of the ladies rendered him. But to give him anything to
drink was impossible, or would have been so had not the landlord bored
a reed, and putting one end in his mouth poured the wine into him
through the other; all which he bore with patience rather than sever
the ribbons of his helmet.
While this was going on there came up to the inn a sowgelder, who, as
he approached, sounded his reed pipe four or five times, and thereby
completely convinced Don Quixote that he was in some famous castle, and
that they were regaling him with music, and that the stockfish was
trout, the bread the whitest, the wenches ladies, and the landlord the
castellan of the castle; and consequently he held that his enterprise
and sally had been to some purpose. But still it distressed him to
think he had not been dubbed a knight, for it was plain to him he could
not lawfully engage in any adventure without receiving the order of
knighthood.
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CHAPTER III.
WHEREIN IS RELATED THE DROLL WAY IN WHICH DON QUIXOTE HAD HIMSELF
DUBBED A KNIGHT
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Harassed by this reflection, he made haste with his scanty pothouse
supper, and having finished it called the landlord, and shutting
himself into the stable with him, fell on his knees before him, saying,
“From this spot I rise not, valiant knight, until your courtesy grants
me the boon I seek, one that will redound to your praise and the
benefit of the human race.” The landlord, seeing his guest at his feet
and hearing a speech of this kind, stood staring at him in
bewilderment, not knowing what to do or say, and entreating him to
rise, but all to no purpose until he had agreed to grant the boon
demanded of him. “I looked for no less, my lord, from your High
Magnificence,” replied Don Quixote, “and I have to tell you that the
boon I have asked and your liberality has granted is that you shall dub
me knight to-morrow morning, and that to-night I shall watch my arms in
the chapel of this your castle; thus to-morrow, as I have said, will be
accomplished what I so much desire, enabling me lawfully to roam
through all the four quarters of the world seeking adventures on behalf
of those in distress, as is the duty of chivalry and of knights-errant
like myself, whose ambition is directed to such deeds.”
The landlord, who, as has been mentioned, was something of a wag, and
had already some suspicion of his guest’s want of wits, was quite
convinced of it on hearing talk of this kind from him, and to make
sport for the night he determined to fall in with his humour. So he
told him he was quite right in pursuing the object he had in view, and
that such a motive was natural and becoming in cavaliers as
distinguished as he seemed and his gallant bearing showed him to be;
and that he himself in his younger days had followed the same
honourable calling, roaming in quest of adventures in various parts of
the world, among others the Curing-grounds of Malaga, the Isles of
Riaran, the Precinct of Seville, the Little Market of Segovia, the
Olivera of Valencia, the Rondilla of Granada, the Strand of San Lucar,
the Colt of Cordova, the Taverns of Toledo, and divers other quarters,
where he had proved the nimbleness of his feet and the lightness of his
fingers, doing many wrongs, cheating many widows, ruining maids and
swindling minors, and, in short, bringing himself under the notice of
almost every tribunal and court of justice in Spain; until at last he
had retired to this castle of his, where he was living upon his
property and upon that of others; and where he received all
knights-errant of whatever rank or condition they might be, all for the
great love he bore them and that they might share their substance with
him in return for his benevolence. He told him, moreover, that in this
castle of his there was no chapel in which he could watch his armour,
as it had been pulled down in order to be rebuilt, but that in a case
of necessity it might, he knew, be watched anywhere, and he might watch
it that night in a courtyard of the castle, and in the morning, God
willing, the requisite ceremonies might be performed so as to have him
dubbed a knight, and so thoroughly dubbed that nobody could be more so.
He asked if he had any money with him, to which Don Quixote replied
that he had not a farthing, as in the histories of knights-errant he
had never read of any of them carrying any. On this point the landlord
told him he was mistaken; for, though not recorded in the histories,
because in the author’s opinion there was no need to mention anything
so obvious and necessary as money and clean shirts, it was not to be
supposed therefore that they did not carry them, and he might regard it
as certain and established that all knights-errant (about whom there
were so many full and unimpeachable books) carried well-furnished
purses in case of emergency, and likewise carried shirts and a little
box of ointment to cure the wounds they received. For in those plains
and deserts where they engaged in combat and came out wounded, it was
not always that there was someone to cure them, unless indeed they had
for a friend some sage magician to succour them at once by fetching
through the air upon a cloud some damsel or dwarf with a vial of water
of such virtue that by tasting one drop of it they were cured of their
hurts and wounds in an instant and left as sound as if they had not
received any damage whatever. But in case this should not occur, the
knights of old took care to see that their squires were provided with
money and other requisites, such as lint and ointments for healing
purposes; and when it happened that knights had no squires (which was
rarely and seldom the case) they themselves carried everything in
cunning saddle-bags that were hardly seen on the horse’s croup, as if
it were something else of more importance, because, unless for some
such reason, carrying saddle-bags was not very favourably regarded
among knights-errant. He therefore advised him (and, as his godson so
soon to be, he might even command him) never from that time forth to
travel without money and the usual requirements, and he would find the
advantage of them when he least expected it.
Don Quixote promised to follow his advice scrupulously, and it was
arranged forthwith that he should watch his armour in a large yard at
one side of the inn; so, collecting it all together, Don Quixote placed
it on a trough that stood by the side of a well, and bracing his
buckler on his arm he grasped his lance and began with a stately air to
march up and down in front of the trough, and as he began his march
night began to fall.
The landlord told all the people who were in the inn about the craze of
his guest, the watching of the armour, and the dubbing ceremony he
contemplated. Full of wonder at so strange a form of madness, they
flocked to see it from a distance, and observed with what composure he
sometimes paced up and down, or sometimes, leaning on his lance, gazed
on his armour without taking his eyes off it for ever so long; and as
the night closed in with a light from the moon so brilliant that it
might vie with his that lent it, everything the novice knight did was
plainly seen by all.
Meanwhile one of the carriers who were in the inn thought fit to water
his team, and it was necessary to remove Don Quixote’s armour as it lay
on the trough; but he seeing the other approach hailed him in a loud
voice, “O thou, whoever thou art, rash knight that comest to lay hands
on the armour of the most valorous errant that ever girt on sword, have
a care what thou dost; touch it not unless thou wouldst lay down thy
life as the penalty of thy rashness.” The carrier gave no heed to these
words (and he would have done better to heed them if he had been
heedful of his health), but seizing it by the straps flung the armour
some distance from him. Seeing this, Don Quixote raised his eyes to
heaven, and fixing his thoughts, apparently, upon his lady Dulcinea,
exclaimed, “Aid me, lady mine, in this the first encounter that
presents itself to this breast which thou holdest in subjection; let
not thy favour and protection fail me in this first jeopardy;” and,
with these words and others to the same purpose, dropping his buckler
he lifted his lance with both hands and with it smote such a blow on
the carrier’s head that he stretched him on the ground, so stunned that
had he followed it up with a second there would have been no need of a
surgeon to cure him. This done, he picked up his armour and returned to
his beat with the same serenity as before.
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Shortly after this, another, not knowing what had happened (for the
carrier still lay senseless), came with the same object of giving water
to his mules, and was proceeding to remove the armour in order to clear
the trough, when Don Quixote, without uttering a word or imploring aid
from anyone, once more dropped his buckler and once more lifted his
lance, and without actually breaking the second carrier’s head into
pieces, made more than three of it, for he laid it open in four. At the
noise all the people of the inn ran to the spot, and among them the
landlord. Seeing this, Don Quixote braced his buckler on his arm, and
with his hand on his sword exclaimed, “O Lady of Beauty, strength and
support of my faint heart, it is time for thee to turn the eyes of thy
greatness on this thy captive knight on the brink of so mighty an
adventure.” By this he felt himself so inspired that he would not have
flinched if all the carriers in the world had assailed him. The
comrades of the wounded perceiving the plight they were in began from a
distance to shower stones on Don Quixote, who screened himself as best
he could with his buckler, not daring to quit the trough and leave his
armour unprotected. The landlord shouted to them to leave him alone,
for he had already told them that he was mad, and as a madman he would
not be accountable even if he killed them all. Still louder shouted Don
Quixote, calling them knaves and traitors, and the lord of the castle,
who allowed knights-errant to be treated in this fashion, a villain and
a low-born knight whom, had he received the order of knighthood, he
would call to account for his treachery. “But of you,” he cried, “base
and vile rabble, I make no account; fling, strike, come on, do all ye
can against me, ye shall see what the reward of your folly and
insolence will be.” This he uttered with so much spirit and boldness
that he filled his assailants with a terrible fear, and as much for
this reason as at the persuasion of the landlord they left off stoning
him, and he allowed them to carry off the wounded, and with the same
calmness and composure as before resumed the watch over his armour.
But these freaks of his guest were not much to the liking of the
landlord, so he determined to cut matters short and confer upon him at
once the unlucky order of knighthood before any further misadventure
could occur; so, going up to him, he apologised for the rudeness which,
without his knowledge, had been offered to him by these low people,
who, however, had been well punished for their audacity. As he had
already told him, he said, there was no chapel in the castle, nor was
it needed for what remained to be done, for, as he understood the
ceremonial of the order, the whole point of being dubbed a knight lay
in the accolade and in the slap on the shoulder, and that could be
administered in the middle of a field; and that he had now done all
that was needful as to watching the armour, for all requirements were
satisfied by a watch of two hours only, while he had been more than
four about it. Don Quixote believed it all, and told him he stood there
ready to obey him, and to make an end of it with as much despatch as
possible; for, if he were again attacked, and felt himself to be dubbed
knight, he would not, he thought, leave a soul alive in the castle,
except such as out of respect he might spare at his bidding.
Thus warned and menaced, the castellan forthwith brought out a book in
which he used to enter the straw and barley he served out to the
carriers, and, with a lad carrying a candle-end, and the two damsels
already mentioned, he returned to where Don Quixote stood, and bade him
kneel down. Then, reading from his account-book as if he were repeating
some devout prayer, in the middle of his delivery he raised his hand
and gave him a sturdy blow on the neck, and then, with his own sword, a
smart slap on the shoulder, all the while muttering between his teeth
as if he was saying his prayers. Having done this, he directed one of
the ladies to gird on his sword, which she did with great
self-possession and gravity, and not a little was required to prevent a
burst of laughter at each stage of the ceremony; but what they had
already seen of the novice knight’s prowess kept their laughter within
bounds. On girding him with the sword the worthy lady said to him, “May
God make your worship a very fortunate knight, and grant you success in
battle.” Don Quixote asked her name in order that he might from that
time forward know to whom he was beholden for the favour he had
received, as he meant to confer upon her some portion of the honour he
acquired by the might of his arm. She answered with great humility that
she was called La Tolosa, and that she was the daughter of a cobbler of
Toledo who lived in the stalls of Sanchobienaya, and that wherever she
might be she would serve and esteem him as her lord. Don Quixote said
in reply that she would do him a favour if thenceforward she assumed
the “Don” and called herself Doña Tolosa. She promised she would, and
then the other buckled on his spur, and with her followed almost the
same conversation as with the lady of the sword. He asked her name, and
she said it was La Molinera, and that she was the daughter of a
respectable miller of Antequera; and of her likewise Don Quixote
requested that she would adopt the “Don” and call herself Doña
Molinera, making offers to her further services and favours.
Having thus, with hot haste and speed, brought to a conclusion these
never-till-now-seen ceremonies, Don Quixote was on thorns until he saw
himself on horseback sallying forth in quest of adventures; and
saddling Rocinante at once he mounted, and embracing his host, as he
returned thanks for his kindness in knighting him, he addressed him in
language so extraordinary that it is impossible to convey an idea of it
or report it. The landlord, to get him out of the inn, replied with no
less rhetoric though with shorter words, and without calling upon him
to pay the reckoning let him go with a Godspeed.
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CHAPTER IV.
OF WHAT HAPPENED TO OUR KNIGHT WHEN HE LEFT THE INN
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Day was dawning when Don Quixote quitted the inn, so happy, so gay, so
exhilarated at finding himself now dubbed a knight, that his joy was
like to burst his horse-girths. However, recalling the advice of his
host as to the requisites he ought to carry with him, especially that
referring to money and shirts, he determined to go home and provide
himself with all, and also with a squire, for he reckoned upon securing
a farm-labourer, a neighbour of his, a poor man with a family, but very
well qualified for the office of squire to a knight. With this object
he turned his horse’s head towards his village, and Rocinante, thus
reminded of his old quarters, stepped out so briskly that he hardly
seemed to tread the earth.
He had not gone far, when out of a thicket on his right there seemed to
come feeble cries as of someone in distress, and the instant he heard
them he exclaimed, “Thanks be to heaven for the favour it accords me,
that it so soon offers me an opportunity of fulfilling the obligation I
have undertaken, and gathering the fruit of my ambition. These cries,
no doubt, come from some man or woman in want of help, and needing my
aid and protection;” and wheeling, he turned Rocinante in the direction
whence the cries seemed to proceed. He had gone but a few paces into
the wood, when he saw a mare tied to an oak, and tied to another, and
stripped from the waist upwards, a youth of about fifteen years of age,
from whom the cries came. Nor were they without cause, for a lusty
farmer was flogging him with a belt and following up every blow with
scoldings and commands, repeating, “Your mouth shut and your eyes
open!” while the youth made answer, “I won’t do it again, master mine;
by God’s passion I won’t do it again, and I’ll take more care of the
flock another time.”
Seeing what was going on, Don Quixote said in an angry voice,
“Discourteous knight, it ill becomes you to assail one who cannot
defend himself; mount your steed and take your lance” (for there was a
lance leaning against the oak to which the mare was tied), “and I will
make you know that you are behaving as a coward.” The farmer, seeing
before him this figure in full armour brandishing a lance over his
head, gave himself up for dead, and made answer meekly, “Sir Knight,
this youth that I am chastising is my servant, employed by me to watch
a flock of sheep that I have hard by, and he is so careless that I lose
one every day, and when I punish him for his carelessness and knavery
he says I do it out of niggardliness, to escape paying him the wages I
owe him, and before God, and on my soul, he lies.”
“Lies before me, base clown!” said Don Quixote. “By the sun that shines
on us I have a mind to run you through with this lance. Pay him at once
without another word; if not, by the God that rules us I will make an
end of you, and annihilate you on the spot; release him instantly.”
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The farmer hung his head, and without a word untied his servant, of
whom Don Quixote asked how much his master owed him.
He replied, nine months at seven reals a month. Don Quixote added it
up, found that it came to sixty-three reals, and told the farmer to pay
it down immediately, if he did not want to die for it.
The trembling clown replied that as he lived and by the oath he had
sworn (though he had not sworn any) it was not so much; for there were
to be taken into account and deducted three pairs of shoes he had given
him, and a real for two blood-lettings when he was sick.
“All that is very well,” said Don Quixote; “but let the shoes and the
blood-lettings stand as a setoff against the blows you have given him
without any cause; for if he spoiled the leather of the shoes you paid
for, you have damaged that of his body, and if the barber took blood
from him when he was sick, you have drawn it when he was sound; so on
that score he owes you nothing.”
“The difficulty is, Sir Knight, that I have no money here; let Andres
come home with me, and I will pay him all, real by real.”
“I go with him!” said the youth. “Nay, God forbid! No, señor, not for
the world; for once alone with me, he would flay me like a Saint
Bartholomew.”
“He will do nothing of the kind,” said Don Quixote; “I have only to
command, and he will obey me; and as he has sworn to me by the order of
knighthood which he has received, I leave him free, and I guarantee the
payment.”
“Consider what you are saying, señor,” said the youth; “this master of
mine is not a knight, nor has he received any order of knighthood; for
he is Juan Haldudo the Rich, of Quintanar.”
“That matters little,” replied Don Quixote; “there may be Haldudos
knights; moreover, everyone is the son of his works.”
“That is true,” said Andres; “but this master of mine—of what works is
he the son, when he refuses me the wages of my sweat and labour?”
“I do not refuse, brother Andres,” said the farmer, “be good enough to
come along with me, and I swear by all the orders of knighthood there
are in the world to pay you as I have agreed, real by real, and
perfumed.”
“For the perfumery I excuse you,” said Don Quixote; “give it to him in
reals, and I shall be satisfied; and see that you do as you have sworn;
if not, by the same oath I swear to come back and hunt you out and
punish you; and I shall find you though you should lie closer than a
lizard. And if you desire to know who it is lays this command upon you,
that you be more firmly bound to obey it, know that I am the valorous
Don Quixote of La Mancha, the undoer of wrongs and injustices; and so,
God be with you, and keep in mind what you have promised and sworn
under those penalties that have been already declared to you.”
So saying, he gave Rocinante the spur and was soon out of reach. The
farmer followed him with his eyes, and when he saw that he had cleared
the wood and was no longer in sight, he turned to his boy Andres, and
said, “Come here, my son, I want to pay you what I owe you, as that
undoer of wrongs has commanded me.”
“My oath on it,” said Andres, “your worship will be well advised to
obey the command of that good knight—may he live a thousand years—for,
as he is a valiant and just judge, by Roque, if you do not pay me, he
will come back and do as he said.”
“My oath on it, too,” said the farmer; “but as I have a strong
affection for you, I want to add to the debt in order to add to the
payment;” and seizing him by the arm, he tied him up again, and gave
him such a flogging that he left him for dead.
“Now, Master Andres,” said the farmer, “call on the undoer of wrongs;
you will find he won’t undo that, though I am not sure that I have
quite done with you, for I have a good mind to flay you alive.” But at
last he untied him, and gave him leave to go look for his judge in
order to put the sentence pronounced into execution.
Andres went off rather down in the mouth, swearing he would go to look
for the valiant Don Quixote of La Mancha and tell him exactly what had
happened, and that all would have to be repaid him sevenfold; but for
all that, he went off weeping, while his master stood laughing.
Thus did the valiant Don Quixote right that wrong, and, thoroughly
satisfied with what had taken place, as he considered he had made a
very happy and noble beginning with his knighthood, he took the road
towards his village in perfect self-content, saying in a low voice,
“Well mayest thou this day call thyself fortunate above all on earth, O
Dulcinea del Toboso, fairest of the fair! since it has fallen to thy
lot to hold subject and submissive to thy full will and pleasure a
knight so renowned as is and will be Don Quixote of La Mancha, who, as
all the world knows, yesterday received the order of knighthood, and
hath to-day righted the greatest wrong and grievance that ever
injustice conceived and cruelty perpetrated: who hath to-day plucked
the rod from the hand of yonder ruthless oppressor so wantonly lashing
that tender child.”
He now came to a road branching in four directions, and immediately he
was reminded of those cross-roads where knights-errant used to stop to
consider which road they should take. In imitation of them he halted
for a while, and after having deeply considered it, he gave Rocinante
his head, submitting his own will to that of his hack, who followed out
his first intention, which was to make straight for his own stable.
After he had gone about two miles Don Quixote perceived a large party
of people, who, as afterwards appeared, were some Toledo traders, on
their way to buy silk at Murcia. There were six of them coming along
under their sunshades, with four servants mounted, and three muleteers
on foot. Scarcely had Don Quixote descried them when the fancy
possessed him that this must be some new adventure; and to help him to
imitate as far as he could those passages he had read of in his books,
here seemed to come one made on purpose, which he resolved to attempt.
So with a lofty bearing and determination he fixed himself firmly in
his stirrups, got his lance ready, brought his buckler before his
breast, and planting himself in the middle of the road, stood waiting
the approach of these knights-errant, for such he now considered and
held them to be; and when they had come near enough to see and hear, he
exclaimed with a haughty gesture, “All the world stand, unless all the
world confess that in all the world there is no maiden fairer than the
Empress of La Mancha, the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso.”
The traders halted at the sound of this language and the sight of the
strange figure that uttered it, and from both figure and language at
once guessed the craze of their owner; they wished, however, to learn
quietly what was the object of this confession that was demanded of
them, and one of them, who was rather fond of a joke and was very
sharp-witted, said to him, “Sir Knight, we do not know who this good
lady is that you speak of; show her to us, for, if she be of such
beauty as you suggest, with all our hearts and without any pressure we
will confess the truth that is on your part required of us.”
“If I were to show her to you,” replied Don Quixote, “what merit would
you have in confessing a truth so manifest? The essential point is that
without seeing her you must believe, confess, affirm, swear, and defend
it; else ye have to do with me in battle, ill-conditioned, arrogant
rabble that ye are; and come ye on, one by one as the order of
knighthood requires, or all together as is the custom and vile usage of
your breed, here do I bide and await you relying on the justice of the
cause I maintain.”
“Sir Knight,” replied the trader, “I entreat your worship in the name
of this present company of princes, that, to save us from charging our
consciences with the confession of a thing we have never seen or heard
of, and one moreover so much to the prejudice of the Empresses and
Queens of the Alcarria and Estremadura, your worship will be pleased to
show us some portrait of this lady, though it be no bigger than a grain
of wheat; for by the thread one gets at the ball, and in this way we
shall be satisfied and easy, and you will be content and pleased; nay,
I believe we are already so far agreed with you that even though her
portrait should show her blind of one eye, and distilling vermilion and
sulphur from the other, we would nevertheless, to gratify your worship,
say all in her favour that you desire.”
“She distils nothing of the kind, vile rabble,” said Don Quixote,
burning with rage, “nothing of the kind, I say, only ambergris and
civet in cotton; nor is she one-eyed or humpbacked, but straighter than
a Guadarrama spindle: but ye must pay for the blasphemy ye have uttered
against beauty like that of my lady.”
And so saying, he charged with levelled lance against the one who had
spoken, with such fury and fierceness that, if luck had not contrived
that Rocinante should stumble midway and come down, it would have gone
hard with the rash trader. Down went Rocinante, and over went his
master, rolling along the ground for some distance; and when he tried
to rise he was unable, so encumbered was he with lance, buckler, spurs,
helmet, and the weight of his old armour; and all the while he was
struggling to get up he kept saying, “Fly not, cowards and caitiffs!
stay, for not by my fault, but my horse’s, am I stretched here.”
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One of the muleteers in attendance, who could not have had much good
nature in him, hearing the poor prostrate man blustering in this style,
was unable to refrain from giving him an answer on his ribs; and coming
up to him he seized his lance, and having broken it in pieces, with one
of them he began so to belabour our Don Quixote that, notwithstanding
and in spite of his armour, he milled him like a measure of wheat. His
masters called out not to lay on so hard and to leave him alone, but
the muleteer’s blood was up, and he did not care to drop the game until
he had vented the rest of his wrath, and gathering up the remaining
fragments of the lance he finished with a discharge upon the unhappy
victim, who all through the storm of sticks that rained on him never
ceased threatening heaven, and earth, and the brigands, for such they
seemed to him. At last the muleteer was tired, and the traders
continued their journey, taking with them matter for talk about the
poor fellow who had been cudgelled. He when he found himself alone made
another effort to rise; but if he was unable when whole and sound, how
was he to rise after having been thrashed and well-nigh knocked to
pieces? And yet he esteemed himself fortunate, as it seemed to him that
this was a regular knight-errant’s mishap, and entirely, he considered,
the fault of his horse. However, battered in body as he was, to rise
was beyond his power.
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CHAPTER V.
IN WHICH THE NARRATIVE OF OUR KNIGHT’S MISHAP IS CONTINUED
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Finding, then, that, in fact he could not move, he thought himself of
having recourse to his usual remedy, which was to think of some passage
in his books, and his craze brought to his mind that about Baldwin and
the Marquis of Mantua, when Carloto left him wounded on the
mountainside, a story known by heart by the children, not forgotten by
the young men, and lauded and even believed by the old folk; and for
all that not a whit truer than the miracles of Mahomet. This seemed to
him to fit exactly the case in which he found himself, so, making a
show of severe suffering, he began to roll on the ground and with
feeble breath repeat the very words which the wounded knight of the
wood is said to have uttered:
Where art thou, lady mine, that thou
My sorrow dost not rue?
Thou canst not know it, lady mine,
Or else thou art untrue.
And so he went on with the ballad as far as the lines:
O noble Marquis of Mantua,
My Uncle and liege lord!
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As chance would have it, when he had got to this line there happened to
come by a peasant from his own village, a neighbour of his, who had
been with a load of wheat to the mill, and he, seeing the man stretched
there, came up to him and asked him who he was and what was the matter
with him that he complained so dolefully.
Don Quixote was firmly persuaded that this was the Marquis of Mantua,
his uncle, so the only answer he made was to go on with his ballad, in
which he told the tale of his misfortune, and of the loves of the
Emperor’s son and his wife all exactly as the ballad sings it.
The peasant stood amazed at hearing such nonsense, and relieving him of
the visor, already battered to pieces by blows, he wiped his face,
which was covered with dust, and as soon as he had done so he
recognised him and said, “Señor Quixada” (for so he appears to have
been called when he was in his senses and had not yet changed from a
quiet country gentleman into a knight-errant), “who has brought your
worship to this pass?” But to all questions the other only went on with
his ballad.
Seeing this, the good man removed as well as he could his breastplate
and backpiece to see if he had any wound, but he could perceive no
blood nor any mark whatever. He then contrived to raise him from the
ground, and with no little difficulty hoisted him upon his ass, which
seemed to him to be the easiest mount for him; and collecting the arms,
even to the splinters of the lance, he tied them on Rocinante, and
leading him by the bridle and the ass by the halter he took the road
for the village, very sad to hear what absurd stuff Don Quixote was
talking.
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Nor was Don Quixote less so, for what with blows and bruises he could
not sit upright on the ass, and from time to time he sent up sighs to
heaven, so that once more he drove the peasant to ask what ailed him.
And it could have been only the devil himself that put into his head
tales to match his own adventures, for now, forgetting Baldwin, he
bethought himself of the Moor Abindarraez, when the Alcaide of
Antequera, Rodrigo de Narvaez, took him prisoner and carried him away
to his castle; so that when the peasant again asked him how he was and
what ailed him, he gave him for reply the same words and phrases that
the captive Abindarraez gave to Rodrigo de Narvaez, just as he had read
the story in the “Diana” of Jorge de Montemayor where it is written,
applying it to his own case so aptly that the peasant went along
cursing his fate that he had to listen to such a lot of nonsense; from
which, however, he came to the conclusion that his neighbour was mad,
and so made all haste to reach the village to escape the wearisomeness
of this harangue of Don Quixote’s; who, at the end of it, said, “Señor
Don Rodrigo de Narvaez, your worship must know that this fair Xarifa I
have mentioned is now the lovely Dulcinea del Toboso, for whom I have
done, am doing, and will do the most famous deeds of chivalry that in
this world have been seen, are to be seen, or ever shall be seen.”
To this the peasant answered, “Señor—sinner that I am!—cannot your
worship see that I am not Don Rodrigo de Narvaez nor the Marquis of
Mantua, but Pedro Alonso your neighbour, and that your worship is
neither Baldwin nor Abindarraez, but the worthy gentleman Señor
Quixada?”
“I know who I am,” replied Don Quixote, “and I know that I may be not
only those I have named, but all the Twelve Peers of France and even
all the Nine Worthies, since my achievements surpass all that they have
done all together and each of them on his own account.”
With this talk and more of the same kind they reached the village just
as night was beginning to fall, but the peasant waited until it was a
little later that the belaboured gentleman might not be seen riding in
such a miserable trim. When it was what seemed to him the proper time
he entered the village and went to Don Quixote’s house, which he found
all in confusion, and there were the curate and the village barber, who
were great friends of Don Quixote, and his housekeeper was saying to
them in a loud voice, “What does your worship think can have befallen
my master, Señor Licentiate Pero Perez?” for so the curate was called;
“it is three days now since anything has been seen of him, or the hack,
or the buckler, lance, or armour. Miserable me! I am certain of it, and
it is as true as that I was born to die, that these accursed books of
chivalry he has, and has got into the way of reading so constantly,
have upset his reason; for now I remember having often heard him saying
to himself that he would turn knight-errant and go all over the world
in quest of adventures. To the devil and Barabbas with such books, that
have brought to ruin in this way the finest understanding there was in
all La Mancha!”
The niece said the same, and, more: “You must know, Master
Nicholas”—for that was the name of the barber—“it was often my uncle’s
way to stay two days and nights together poring over these unholy books
of misventures, after which he would fling the book away and snatch up
his sword and fall to slashing the walls; and when he was tired out he
would say he had killed four giants like four towers; and the sweat
that flowed from him when he was weary he said was the blood of the
wounds he had received in battle; and then he would drink a great jug
of cold water and become calm and quiet, saying that this water was a
most precious potion which the sage Esquife, a great magician and
friend of his, had brought him. But I take all the blame upon myself
for never having told your worships of my uncle’s vagaries, that you
might put a stop to them before things had come to this pass, and burn
all these accursed books—for he has a great number—that richly deserve
to be burned like heretics.”
“So say I too,” said the curate, “and by my faith to-morrow shall not
pass without public judgment upon them, and may they be condemned to
the flames lest they lead those that read to behave as my good friend
seems to have behaved.”
All this the peasant heard, and from it he understood at last what was
the matter with his neighbour, so he began calling aloud, “Open, your
worships, to Señor Baldwin and to Señor the Marquis of Mantua, who
comes badly wounded, and to Señor Abindarraez, the Moor, whom the
valiant Rodrigo de Narvaez, the Alcaide of Antequera, brings captive.”
At these words they all hurried out, and when they recognised their
friend, master, and uncle, who had not yet dismounted from the ass
because he could not, they ran to embrace him.
“Hold!” said he, “for I am badly wounded through my horse’s fault;
carry me to bed, and if possible send for the wise Urganda to cure and
see to my wounds.”
“See there! plague on it!” cried the housekeeper at this: “did not my
heart tell the truth as to which foot my master went lame of? To bed
with your worship at once, and we will contrive to cure you here
without fetching that Hurgada. A curse I say once more, and a hundred
times more, on those books of chivalry that have brought your worship
to such a pass.”
They carried him to bed at once, and after searching for his wounds
could find none, but he said they were all bruises from having had a
severe fall with his horse Rocinante when in combat with ten giants,
the biggest and the boldest to be found on earth.
“So, so!” said the curate, “are there giants in the dance? By the sign
of the Cross I will burn them to-morrow before the day is over.”
They put a host of questions to Don Quixote, but his only answer to all
was—give him something to eat, and leave him to sleep, for that was
what he needed most. They did so, and the curate questioned the peasant
at great length as to how he had found Don Quixote. He told him, and
the nonsense he had talked when found and on the way home, all which
made the licentiate the more eager to do what he did the next day,
which was to summon his friend the barber, Master Nicholas, and go with
him to Don Quixote’s house.
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CHAPTER VI.
OF THE DIVERTING AND IMPORTANT SCRUTINY WHICH THE CURATE AND THE BARBER
MADE IN THE LIBRARY OF OUR INGENIOUS GENTLEMAN
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He was still sleeping; so the curate asked the niece for the keys of
the room where the books, the authors of all the mischief, were, and
right willingly she gave them. They all went in, the housekeeper with
them, and found more than a hundred volumes of big books very well
bound, and some other small ones. The moment the housekeeper saw them
she turned about and ran out of the room, and came back immediately
with a saucer of holy water and a sprinkler, saying, “Here, your
worship, señor licentiate, sprinkle this room; don’t leave any magician
of the many there are in these books to bewitch us in revenge for our
design of banishing them from the world.”
The simplicity of the housekeeper made the licentiate laugh, and he
directed the barber to give him the books one by one to see what they
were about, as there might be some to be found among them that did not
deserve the penalty of fire.
“No,” said the niece, “there is no reason for showing mercy to any of
them; they have every one of them done mischief; better fling them out
of the window into the court and make a pile of them and set fire to
them; or else carry them into the yard, and there a bonfire can be made
without the smoke giving any annoyance.” The housekeeper said the same,
so eager were they both for the slaughter of those innocents, but the
curate would not agree to it without first reading at any rate the
titles.
The first that Master Nicholas put into his hand was “The four books of
Amadis of Gaul.” “This seems a mysterious thing,” said the curate,
“for, as I have heard say, this was the first book of chivalry printed
in Spain, and from this all the others derive their birth and origin;
so it seems to me that we ought inexorably to condemn it to the flames
as the founder of so vile a sect.”
“Nay, sir,” said the barber, “I too, have heard say that this is the
best of all the books of this kind that have been written, and so, as
something singular in its line, it ought to be pardoned.”
“True,” said the curate; “and for that reason let its life be spared
for the present. Let us see that other which is next to it.”
“It is,” said the barber, “the ‘Sergas de Esplandian,’ the lawful son
of Amadis of Gaul.”
“Then verily,” said the curate, “the merit of the father must not be
put down to the account of the son. Take it, mistress housekeeper; open
the window and fling it into the yard and lay the foundation of the
pile for the bonfire we are to make.”
The housekeeper obeyed with great satisfaction, and the worthy
“Esplandian” went flying into the yard to await with all patience the
fire that was in store for him.
“Proceed,” said the curate.
“This that comes next,” said the barber, “is ‘Amadis of Greece,’ and,
indeed, I believe all those on this side are of the same Amadis
lineage.”
“Then to the yard with the whole of them,” said the curate; “for to
have the burning of Queen Pintiquiniestra, and the shepherd Darinel and
his eclogues, and the bedevilled and involved discourses of his author,
I would burn with them the father who begot me if he were going about
in the guise of a knight-errant.”
“I am of the same mind,” said the barber.
“And so am I,” added the niece.
“In that case,” said the housekeeper, “here, into the yard with them!”
They were handed to her, and as there were many of them, she spared
herself the staircase, and flung them down out of the window.
“Who is that tub there?” said the curate.
“This,” said the barber, “is ‘Don Olivante de Laura.’”
“The author of that book,” said the curate, “was the same that wrote
‘The Garden of Flowers,’ and truly there is no deciding which of the
two books is the more truthful, or, to put it better, the less lying;
all I can say is, send this one into the yard for a swaggering fool.”
“This that follows is ‘Florismarte of Hircania,’” said the barber.
“Señor Florismarte here?” said the curate; “then by my faith he must
take up his quarters in the yard, in spite of his marvellous birth and
visionary adventures, for the stiffness and dryness of his style
deserve nothing else; into the yard with him and the other, mistress
housekeeper.”
“With all my heart, señor,” said she, and executed the order with great
delight.
“This,” said the barber, “is ‘The Knight Platir.’”
“An old book that,” said the curate, “but I find no reason for clemency
in it; send it after the others without appeal;” which was done.
Another book was opened, and they saw it was entitled, “The Knight of
the Cross.”
“For the sake of the holy name this book has,” said the curate, “its
ignorance might be excused; but then, they say, ‘behind the cross
there’s the devil;’ to the fire with it.”
Taking down another book, the barber said, “This is ‘The Mirror of
Chivalry.’”
“I know his worship,” said the curate; “that is where Señor Reinaldos
of Montalvan figures with his friends and comrades, greater thieves
than Cacus, and the Twelve Peers of France with the veracious historian
Turpin; however, I am not for condemning them to more than perpetual
banishment, because, at any rate, they have some share in the invention
of the famous Matteo Boiardo, whence too the Christian poet Ludovico
Ariosto wove his web, to whom, if I find him here, and speaking any
language but his own, I shall show no respect whatever; but if he
speaks his own tongue I will put him upon my head.”
“Well, I have him in Italian,” said the barber, “but I do not
understand him.”
“Nor would it be well that you should understand him,” said the curate,
“and on that score we might have excused the Captain if he had not
brought him into Spain and turned him into Castilian. He robbed him of
a great deal of his natural force, and so do all those who try to turn
books written in verse into another language, for, with all the pains
they take and all the cleverness they show, they never can reach the
level of the originals as they were first produced. In short, I say
that this book, and all that may be found treating of those French
affairs, should be thrown into or deposited in some dry well, until
after more consideration it is settled what is to be done with them;
excepting always one ‘Bernardo del Carpio’ that is going about, and
another called ‘Roncesvalles;’ for these, if they come into my hands,
shall pass at once into those of the housekeeper, and from hers into
the fire without any reprieve.”
To all this the barber gave his assent, and looked upon it as right and
proper, being persuaded that the curate was so staunch to the Faith and
loyal to the Truth that he would not for the world say anything opposed
to them. Opening another book he saw it was “Palmerin de Oliva,” and
beside it was another called “Palmerin of England,” seeing which the
licentiate said, “Let the Olive be made firewood of at once and burned
until no ashes even are left; and let that Palm of England be kept and
preserved as a thing that stands alone, and let such another case be
made for it as that which Alexander found among the spoils of Darius
and set aside for the safe keeping of the works of the poet Homer. This
book, gossip, is of authority for two reasons, first because it is very
good, and secondly because it is said to have been written by a wise
and witty king of Portugal. All the adventures at the Castle of
Miraguarda are excellent and of admirable contrivance, and the language
is polished and clear, studying and observing the style befitting the
speaker with propriety and judgment. So then, provided it seems good to
you, Master Nicholas, I say let this and ‘Amadis of Gaul’ be remitted
the penalty of fire, and as for all the rest, let them perish without
further question or query.”
“Nay, gossip,” said the barber, “for this that I have here is the
famous ‘Don Belianis.’”
“Well,” said the curate, “that and the second, third, and fourth parts
all stand in need of a little rhubarb to purge their excess of bile,
and they must be cleared of all that stuff about the Castle of Fame and
other greater affectations, to which end let them be allowed the
over-seas term, and, according as they mend, so shall mercy or justice
be meted out to them; and in the mean time, gossip, do you keep them in
your house and let no one read them.”
“With all my heart,” said the barber; and not caring to tire himself
with reading more books of chivalry, he told the housekeeper to take
all the big ones and throw them into the yard. It was not said to one
dull or deaf, but to one who enjoyed burning them more than weaving the
broadest and finest web that could be; and seizing about eight at a
time, she flung them out of the window.
In carrying so many together she let one fall at the feet of the
barber, who took it up, curious to know whose it was, and found it
said, “History of the Famous Knight, Tirante el Blanco.”
“God bless me!” said the curate with a shout, “‘Tirante el Blanco’
here! Hand it over, gossip, for in it I reckon I have found a treasury
of enjoyment and a mine of recreation. Here is Don Kyrieleison of
Montalvan, a valiant knight, and his brother Thomas of Montalvan, and
the knight Fonseca, with the battle the bold Tirante fought with the
mastiff, and the witticisms of the damsel Placerdemivida, and the loves
and wiles of the widow Reposada, and the empress in love with the
squire Hipolito—in truth, gossip, by right of its style it is the best
book in the world. Here knights eat and sleep, and die in their beds,
and make their wills before dying, and a great deal more of which there
is nothing in all the other books. Nevertheless, I say he who wrote it,
for deliberately composing such fooleries, deserves to be sent to the
galleys for life. Take it home with you and read it, and you will see
that what I have said is true.”
“As you will,” said the barber; “but what are we to do with these
little books that are left?”
“These must be, not chivalry, but poetry,” said the curate; and opening
one he saw it was the “Diana” of Jorge de Montemayor, and, supposing
all the others to be of the same sort, “these,” he said, “do not
deserve to be burned like the others, for they neither do nor can do
the mischief the books of chivalry have done, being books of
entertainment that can hurt no one.”
“Ah, señor!” said the niece, “your worship had better order these to be
burned as well as the others; for it would be no wonder if, after being
cured of his chivalry disorder, my uncle, by reading these, took a
fancy to turn shepherd and range the woods and fields singing and
piping; or, what would be still worse, to turn poet, which they say is
an incurable and infectious malady.”
“The damsel is right,” said the curate, “and it will be well to put
this stumbling-block and temptation out of our friend’s way. To begin,
then, with the ‘Diana’ of Montemayor. I am of opinion it should not be
burned, but that it should be cleared of all that about the sage
Felicia and the magic water, and of almost all the longer pieces of
verse: let it keep, and welcome, its prose and the honour of being the
first of books of the kind.”
“This that comes next,” said the barber, “is the ‘Diana,’ entitled the
‘Second Part, by the Salamancan,’ and this other has the same title,
and its author is Gil Polo.”
“As for that of the Salamancan,” replied the curate, “let it go to
swell the number of the condemned in the yard, and let Gil Polo’s be
preserved as if it came from Apollo himself: but get on, gossip, and
make haste, for it is growing late.”
“This book,” said the barber, opening another, “is the ten books of the
‘Fortune of Love,’ written by Antonio de Lofraso, a Sardinian poet.”
“By the orders I have received,” said the curate, “since Apollo has
been Apollo, and the Muses have been Muses, and poets have been poets,
so droll and absurd a book as this has never been written, and in its
way it is the best and the most singular of all of this species that
have as yet appeared, and he who has not read it may be sure he has
never read what is delightful. Give it here, gossip, for I make more
account of having found it than if they had given me a cassock of
Florence stuff.”
He put it aside with extreme satisfaction, and the barber went on,
“These that come next are ‘The Shepherd of Iberia,’ ‘Nymphs of
Henares,’ and ‘The Enlightenment of Jealousy.’”
“Then all we have to do,” said the curate, “is to hand them over to the
secular arm of the housekeeper, and ask me not why, or we shall never
have done.”
“This next is the ‘Pastor de Fílida.’”
“No Pastor that,” said the curate, “but a highly polished courtier; let
it be preserved as a precious jewel.”
“This large one here,” said the barber, “is called ‘The Treasury of
various Poems.’”
“If there were not so many of them,” said the curate, “they would be
more relished: this book must be weeded and cleansed of certain
vulgarities which it has with its excellences; let it be preserved
because the author is a friend of mine, and out of respect for other
more heroic and loftier works that he has written.”
“This,” continued the barber, “is the ‘Cancionero’ of Lopez de
Maldonado.”
“The author of that book, too,” said the curate, “is a great friend of
mine, and his verses from his own mouth are the admiration of all who
hear them, for such is the sweetness of his voice that he enchants when
he chants them: it gives rather too much of its eclogues, but what is
good was never yet plentiful: let it be kept with those that have been
set apart. But what book is that next it?”
“The ‘Galatea’ of Miguel de Cervantes,” said the barber.
“That Cervantes has been for many years a great friend of mine, and to
my knowledge he has had more experience in reverses than in verses. His
book has some good invention in it, it presents us with something but
brings nothing to a conclusion: we must wait for the Second Part it
promises: perhaps with amendment it may succeed in winning the full
measure of grace that is now denied it; and in the mean time do you,
señor gossip, keep it shut up in your own quarters.”
“Very good,” said the barber; “and here come three together, the
‘Araucana’ of Don Alonso de Ercilla, the ‘Austriada’ of Juan Rufo,
Justice of Cordova, and the ‘Montserrate’ of Christobal de Virués, the
Valencian poet.”
“These three books,” said the curate, “are the best that have been
written in Castilian in heroic verse, and they may compare with the
most famous of Italy; let them be preserved as the richest treasures of
poetry that Spain possesses.”
The curate was tired and would not look into any more books, and so he
decided that, “contents uncertified,” all the rest should be burned;
but just then the barber held open one, called “The Tears of Angelica.”
“I should have shed tears myself,” said the curate when he heard the
title, “had I ordered that book to be burned, for its author was one of
the famous poets of the world, not to say of Spain, and was very happy
in the translation of some of Ovid’s fables.”
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CHAPTER VII.
OF THE SECOND SALLY OF OUR WORTHY KNIGHT DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA
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At this instant Don Quixote began shouting out, “Here, here, valiant
knights! here is need for you to put forth the might of your strong
arms, for they of the Court are gaining the mastery in the tourney!”
Called away by this noise and outcry, they proceeded no farther with
the scrutiny of the remaining books, and so it is thought that “The
Carolea,” “The Lion of Spain,” and “The Deeds of the Emperor,” written
by Don Luis de Ávila, went to the fire unseen and unheard; for no doubt
they were among those that remained, and perhaps if the curate had seen
them they would not have undergone so severe a sentence.
When they reached Don Quixote he was already out of bed, and was still
shouting and raving, and slashing and cutting all round, as wide awake
as if he had never slept.
They closed with him and by force got him back to bed, and when he had
become a little calm, addressing the curate, he said to him, “Of a
truth, Señor Archbishop Turpin, it is a great disgrace for us who call
ourselves the Twelve Peers, so carelessly to allow the knights of the
Court to gain the victory in this tourney, we the adventurers having
carried off the honour on the three former days.”
“Hush, gossip,” said the curate; “please God, the luck may turn, and
what is lost to-day may be won to-morrow; for the present let your
worship have a care of your health, for it seems to me that you are
over-fatigued, if not badly wounded.”
“Wounded no,” said Don Quixote, “but bruised and battered no doubt, for
that bastard Don Roland has cudgelled me with the trunk of an oak tree,
and all for envy, because he sees that I alone rival him in his
achievements. But I should not call myself Reinaldos of Montalvan did
he not pay me for it in spite of all his enchantments as soon as I rise
from this bed. For the present let them bring me something to eat, for
that, I feel, is what will be more to my purpose, and leave it to me to
avenge myself.”
They did as he wished; they gave him something to eat, and once more he
fell asleep, leaving them marvelling at his madness.
That night the housekeeper burned to ashes all the books that were in
the yard and in the whole house; and some must have been consumed that
deserved preservation in everlasting archives, but their fate and the
laziness of the examiner did not permit it, and so in them was verified
the proverb that the innocent suffer for the guilty.
One of the remedies which the curate and the barber immediately applied
to their friend’s disorder was to wall up and plaster the room where
the books were, so that when he got up he should not find them
(possibly the cause being removed the effect might cease), and they
might say that a magician had carried them off, room and all; and this
was done with all despatch. Two days later Don Quixote got up, and the
first thing he did was to go and look at his books, and not finding the
room where he had left it, he wandered from side to side looking for
it. He came to the place where the door used to be, and tried it with
his hands, and turned and twisted his eyes in every direction without
saying a word; but after a good while he asked his housekeeper
whereabouts was the room that held his books.
The housekeeper, who had been already well instructed in what she was
to answer, said, “What room or what nothing is it that your worship is
looking for? There are neither room nor books in this house now, for
the devil himself has carried all away.”
“It was not the devil,” said the niece, “but a magician who came on a
cloud one night after the day your worship left this, and dismounting
from a serpent that he rode he entered the room, and what he did there
I know not, but after a little while he made off, flying through the
roof, and left the house full of smoke; and when we went to see what he
had done we saw neither book nor room: but we remember very well, the
housekeeper and I, that on leaving, the old villain said in a loud
voice that, for a private grudge he owed the owner of the books and the
room, he had done mischief in that house that would be discovered
by-and-by: he said too that his name was the Sage Muñaton.”
“He must have said Friston,” said Don Quixote.
“I don’t know whether he called himself Friston or Friton,” said the
housekeeper, “I only know that his name ended with ‘ton.’”
“So it does,” said Don Quixote, “and he is a sage magician, a great
enemy of mine, who has a spite against me because he knows by his arts
and lore that in process of time I am to engage in single combat with a
knight whom he befriends and that I am to conquer, and he will be
unable to prevent it; and for this reason he endeavours to do me all
the ill turns that he can; but I promise him it will be hard for him to
oppose or avoid what is decreed by Heaven.”
“Who doubts that?” said the niece; “but, uncle, who mixes you up in
these quarrels? Would it not be better to remain at peace in your own
house instead of roaming the world looking for better bread than ever
came of wheat, never reflecting that many go for wool and come back
shorn?”
“Oh, niece of mine,” replied Don Quixote, “how much astray art thou in
thy reckoning: ere they shear me I shall have plucked away and stripped
off the beards of all who dare to touch only the tip of a hair of
mine.”
The two were unwilling to make any further answer, as they saw that his
anger was kindling.
In short, then, he remained at home fifteen days very quietly without
showing any signs of a desire to take up with his former delusions, and
during this time he held lively discussions with his two gossips, the
curate and the barber, on the point he maintained, that knights-errant
were what the world stood most in need of, and that in him was to be
accomplished the revival of knight-errantry. The curate sometimes
contradicted him, sometimes agreed with him, for if he had not observed
this precaution he would have been unable to bring him to reason.
Meanwhile Don Quixote worked upon a farm labourer, a neighbour of his,
an honest man (if indeed that title can be given to him who is poor),
but with very little wit in his pate. In a word, he so talked him over,
and with such persuasions and promises, that the poor clown made up his
mind to sally forth with him and serve him as esquire. Don Quixote,
among other things, told him he ought to be ready to go with him
gladly, because any moment an adventure might occur that might win an
island in the twinkling of an eye and leave him governor of it. On
these and the like promises Sancho Panza (for so the labourer was
called) left wife and children, and engaged himself as esquire to his
neighbour.
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Don Quixote next set about getting some money; and selling one thing
and pawning another, and making a bad bargain in every case, he got
together a fair sum. He provided himself with a buckler, which he
begged as a loan from a friend, and, restoring his battered helmet as
best he could, he warned his squire Sancho of the day and hour he meant
to set out, that he might provide himself with what he thought most
needful. Above all, he charged him to take alforjas with him. The other
said he would, and that he meant to take also a very good ass he had,
as he was not much given to going on foot. About the ass, Don Quixote
hesitated a little, trying whether he could call to mind any
knight-errant taking with him an esquire mounted on ass-back, but no
instance occurred to his memory. For all that, however, he determined
to take him, intending to furnish him with a more honourable mount when
a chance of it presented itself, by appropriating the horse of the
first discourteous knight he encountered. Himself he provided with
shirts and such other things as he could, according to the advice the
host had given him; all which being done, without taking leave, Sancho
Panza of his wife and children, or Don Quixote of his housekeeper and
niece, they sallied forth unseen by anybody from the village one night,
and made such good way in the course of it that by daylight they held
themselves safe from discovery, even should search be made for them.
Sancho rode on his ass like a patriarch, with his alforjas and bota,
and longing to see himself soon governor of the island his master had
promised him. Don Quixote decided upon taking the same route and road
he had taken on his first journey, that over the Campo de Montiel,
which he travelled with less discomfort than on the last occasion, for,
as it was early morning and the rays of the sun fell on them obliquely,
the heat did not distress them.
And now said Sancho Panza to his master, “Your worship will take care,
Señor Knight-errant, not to forget about the island you have promised
me, for be it ever so big I’ll be equal to governing it.”
To which Don Quixote replied, “Thou must know, friend Sancho Panza,
that it was a practice very much in vogue with the knights-errant of
old to make their squires governors of the islands or kingdoms they
won, and I am determined that there shall be no failure on my part in
so liberal a custom; on the contrary, I mean to improve upon it, for
they sometimes, and perhaps most frequently, waited until their squires
were old, and then when they had had enough of service and hard days
and worse nights, they gave them some title or other, of count, or at
the most marquis, of some valley or province more or less; but if thou
livest and I live, it may well be that before six days are over, I may
have won some kingdom that has others dependent upon it, which will be
just the thing to enable thee to be crowned king of one of them. Nor
needst thou count this wonderful, for things and chances fall to the
lot of such knights in ways so unexampled and unexpected that I might
easily give thee even more than I promise thee.”
“In that case,” said Sancho Panza, “if I should become a king by one of
those miracles your worship speaks of, even Juana Gutierrez, my old
woman, would come to be queen and my children infantes.”
“Well, who doubts it?” said Don Quixote.
“I doubt it,” replied Sancho Panza, “because for my part I am persuaded
that though God should shower down kingdoms upon earth, not one of them
would fit the head of Mari Gutierrez. Let me tell you, señor, she is
not worth two maravedis for a queen; countess will fit her better, and
that only with God’s help.”
“Leave it to God, Sancho,” returned Don Quixote, “for he will give her
what suits her best; but do not undervalue thyself so much as to come
to be content with anything less than being governor of a province.”
“I will not, señor,” answered Sancho, “specially as I have a man of
such quality for a master in your worship, who will know how to give me
all that will be suitable for me and that I can bear.”
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CHAPTER VIII.
OF THE GOOD FORTUNE WHICH THE VALIANT DON QUIXOTE HAD IN THE TERRIBLE
AND UNDREAMT-OF ADVENTURE OF THE WINDMILLS, WITH OTHER OCCURRENCES
WORTHY TO BE FITLY RECORDED
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At this point they came in sight of thirty or forty windmills that
there are on that plain, and as soon as Don Quixote saw them he said to
his squire, “Fortune is arranging matters for us better than we could
have shaped our desires ourselves, for look there, friend Sancho Panza,
where thirty or more monstrous giants present themselves, all of whom I
mean to engage in battle and slay, and with whose spoils we shall begin
to make our fortunes; for this is righteous warfare, and it is God’s
good service to sweep so evil a breed from off the face of the earth.”
“What giants?” said Sancho Panza.
“Those thou seest there,” answered his master, “with the long arms, and
some have them nearly two leagues long.”
“Look, your worship,” said Sancho; “what we see there are not giants
but windmills, and what seem to be their arms are the sails that turned
by the wind make the millstone go.”
“It is easy to see,” replied Don Quixote, “that thou art not used to
this business of adventures; those are giants; and if thou art afraid,
away with thee out of this and betake thyself to prayer while I engage
them in fierce and unequal combat.”
So saying, he gave the spur to his steed Rocinante, heedless of the
cries his squire Sancho sent after him, warning him that most certainly
they were windmills and not giants he was going to attack. He, however,
was so positive they were giants that he neither heard the cries of
Sancho, nor perceived, near as he was, what they were, but made at them
shouting, “Fly not, cowards and vile beings, for a single knight
attacks you.”
A slight breeze at this moment sprang up, and the great sails began to
move, seeing which Don Quixote exclaimed, “Though ye flourish more arms
than the giant Briareus, ye have to reckon with me.”
So saying, and commending himself with all his heart to his lady
Dulcinea, imploring her to support him in such a peril, with lance in
rest and covered by his buckler, he charged at Rocinante’s fullest
gallop and fell upon the first mill that stood in front of him; but as
he drove his lance-point into the sail the wind whirled it round with
such force that it shivered the lance to pieces, sweeping with it horse
and rider, who went rolling over on the plain, in a sorry condition.
Sancho hastened to his assistance as fast as his ass could go, and when
he came up found him unable to move, with such a shock had Rocinante
fallen with him.
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“God bless me!” said Sancho, “did I not tell your worship to mind what
you were about, for they were only windmills? and no one could have
made any mistake about it but one who had something of the same kind in
his head.”
“Hush, friend Sancho,” replied Don Quixote, “the fortunes of war more
than any other are liable to frequent fluctuations; and moreover I
think, and it is the truth, that that same sage Friston who carried off
my study and books, has turned these giants into mills in order to rob
me of the glory of vanquishing them, such is the enmity he bears me;
but in the end his wicked arts will avail but little against my good
sword.”
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“God order it as he may,” said Sancho Panza, and helping him to rise
got him up again on Rocinante, whose shoulder was half out; and then,
discussing the late adventure, they followed the road to Puerto Lapice,
for there, said Don Quixote, they could not fail to find adventures in
abundance and variety, as it was a great thoroughfare. For all that, he
was much grieved at the loss of his lance, and saying so to his squire,
he added, “I remember having read how a Spanish knight, Diego Perez de
Vargas by name, having broken his sword in battle, tore from an oak a
ponderous bough or branch, and with it did such things that day, and
pounded so many Moors, that he got the surname of Machuca, and he and
his descendants from that day forth were called Vargas y Machuca. I
mention this because from the first oak I see I mean to rend such
another branch, large and stout like that, with which I am determined
and resolved to do such deeds that thou mayest deem thyself very
fortunate in being found worthy to come and see them, and be an
eyewitness of things that will with difficulty be believed.”
“Be that as God will,” said Sancho, “I believe it all as your worship
says it; but straighten yourself a little, for you seem all on one
side, may be from the shaking of the fall.”
“That is the truth,” said Don Quixote, “and if I make no complaint of
the pain it is because knights-errant are not permitted to complain of
any wound, even though their bowels be coming out through it.”
“If so,” said Sancho, “I have nothing to say; but God knows I would
rather your worship complained when anything ailed you. For my part, I
confess I must complain however small the ache may be; unless this rule
about not complaining extends to the squires of knights-errant also.”
Don Quixote could not help laughing at his squire’s simplicity, and he
assured him he might complain whenever and however he chose, just as he
liked, for, so far, he had never read of anything to the contrary in
the order of knighthood.
Sancho bade him remember it was dinner-time, to which his master
answered that he wanted nothing himself just then, but that _he_ might
eat when he had a mind. With this permission Sancho settled himself as
comfortably as he could on his beast, and taking out of the alforjas
what he had stowed away in them, he jogged along behind his master
munching deliberately, and from time to time taking a pull at the bota
with a relish that the thirstiest tapster in Malaga might have envied;
and while he went on in this way, gulping down draught after draught,
he never gave a thought to any of the promises his master had made him,
nor did he rate it as hardship but rather as recreation going in quest
of adventures, however dangerous they might be. Finally they passed the
night among some trees, from one of which Don Quixote plucked a dry
branch to serve him after a fashion as a lance, and fixed on it the
head he had removed from the broken one. All that night Don Quixote lay
awake thinking of his lady Dulcinea, in order to conform to what he had
read in his books, how many a night in the forests and deserts knights
used to lie sleepless supported by the memory of their mistresses. Not
so did Sancho Panza spend it, for having his stomach full of something
stronger than chicory water he made but one sleep of it, and, if his
master had not called him, neither the rays of the sun beating on his
face nor all the cheery notes of the birds welcoming the approach of
day would have had power to waken him. On getting up he tried the bota
and found it somewhat less full than the night before, which grieved
his heart because they did not seem to be on the way to remedy the
deficiency readily. Don Quixote did not care to break his fast, for, as
has been already said, he confined himself to savoury recollections for
nourishment.
They returned to the road they had set out with, leading to Puerto
Lapice, and at three in the afternoon they came in sight of it. “Here,
brother Sancho Panza,” said Don Quixote when he saw it, “we may plunge
our hands up to the elbows in what they call adventures; but observe,
even shouldst thou see me in the greatest danger in the world, thou
must not put a hand to thy sword in my defence, unless indeed thou
perceivest that those who assail me are rabble or base folk; for in
that case thou mayest very properly aid me; but if they be knights it
is on no account permitted or allowed thee by the laws of knighthood to
help me until thou hast been dubbed a knight.”
“Most certainly, señor,” replied Sancho, “your worship shall be fully
obeyed in this matter; all the more as of myself I am peaceful and no
friend to mixing in strife and quarrels: it is true that as regards the
defence of my own person I shall not give much heed to those laws, for
laws human and divine allow each one to defend himself against any
assailant whatever.”
“That I grant,” said Don Quixote, “but in this matter of aiding me
against knights thou must put a restraint upon thy natural
impetuosity.”
“I will do so, I promise you,” answered Sancho, “and will keep this
precept as carefully as Sunday.”
While they were thus talking there appeared on the road two friars of
the order of St. Benedict, mounted on two dromedaries, for not less
tall were the two mules they rode on. They wore travelling spectacles
and carried sunshades; and behind them came a coach attended by four or
five persons on horseback and two muleteers on foot. In the coach there
was, as afterwards appeared, a Biscay lady on her way to Seville, where
her husband was about to take passage for the Indies with an
appointment of high honour. The friars, though going the same road,
were not in her company; but the moment Don Quixote perceived them he
said to his squire, “Either I am mistaken, or this is going to be the
most famous adventure that has ever been seen, for those black bodies
we see there must be, and doubtless are, magicians who are carrying off
some stolen princess in that coach, and with all my might I must undo
this wrong.”
“This will be worse than the windmills,” said Sancho. “Look, señor;
those are friars of St. Benedict, and the coach plainly belongs to some
travellers: I tell you to mind well what you are about and don’t let
the devil mislead you.”
“I have told thee already, Sancho,” replied Don Quixote, “that on the
subject of adventures thou knowest little. What I say is the truth, as
thou shalt see presently.”
So saying, he advanced and posted himself in the middle of the road
along which the friars were coming, and as soon as he thought they had
come near enough to hear what he said, he cried aloud, “Devilish and
unnatural beings, release instantly the highborn princesses whom you
are carrying off by force in this coach, else prepare to meet a speedy
death as the just punishment of your evil deeds.”
The friars drew rein and stood wondering at the appearance of Don
Quixote as well as at his words, to which they replied, “Señor
Caballero, we are not devilish or unnatural, but two brothers of St.
Benedict following our road, nor do we know whether or not there are
any captive princesses coming in this coach.”
“No soft words with me, for I know you, lying rabble,” said Don
Quixote, and without waiting for a reply he spurred Rocinante and with
levelled lance charged the first friar with such fury and
determination, that, if the friar had not flung himself off the mule,
he would have brought him to the ground against his will, and sore
wounded, if not killed outright. The second brother, seeing how his
comrade was treated, drove his heels into his castle of a mule and made
off across the country faster than the wind.
Sancho Panza, when he saw the friar on the ground, dismounting briskly
from his ass, rushed towards him and began to strip off his gown. At
that instant the friars’ muleteers came up and asked what he was
stripping him for. Sancho answered them that this fell to him lawfully
as spoil of the battle which his lord Don Quixote had won. The
muleteers, who had no idea of a joke and did not understand all this
about battles and spoils, seeing that Don Quixote was some distance off
talking to the travellers in the coach, fell upon Sancho, knocked him
down, and leaving hardly a hair in his beard, belaboured him with kicks
and left him stretched breathless and senseless on the ground; and
without any more delay helped the friar to mount, who, trembling,
terrified, and pale, as soon as he found himself in the saddle, spurred
after his companion, who was standing at a distance looking on,
watching the result of the onslaught; then, not caring to wait for the
end of the affair just begun, they pursued their journey making more
crosses than if they had the devil after them.
Don Quixote was, as has been said, speaking to the lady in the coach:
“Your beauty, lady mine,” said he, “may now dispose of your person as
may be most in accordance with your pleasure, for the pride of your
ravishers lies prostrate on the ground through this strong arm of mine;
and lest you should be pining to know the name of your deliverer, know
that I am called Don Quixote of La Mancha, knight-errant and
adventurer, and captive to the peerless and beautiful lady Dulcinea del
Toboso: and in return for the service you have received of me I ask no
more than that you should return to El Toboso, and on my behalf present
yourself before that lady and tell her what I have done to set you
free.”
One of the squires in attendance upon the coach, a Biscayan, was
listening to all Don Quixote was saying, and, perceiving that he would
not allow the coach to go on, but was saying it must return at once to
El Toboso, he made at him, and seizing his lance addressed him in bad
Castilian and worse Biscayan after his fashion, “Begone, caballero, and
ill go with thee; by the God that made me, unless thou quittest coach,
slayest thee as art here a Biscayan.”
Don Quixote understood him quite well, and answered him very quietly,
“If thou wert a knight, as thou art none, I should have already
chastised thy folly and rashness, miserable creature.” To which the
Biscayan returned, “I no gentleman!—I swear to God thou liest as I am
Christian: if thou droppest lance and drawest sword, soon shalt thou
see thou art carrying water to the cat: Biscayan on land, hidalgo at
sea, hidalgo at the devil, and look, if thou sayest otherwise thou
liest.”
“‘“You will see presently,” said Agrajes,’” replied Don Quixote; and
throwing his lance on the ground he drew his sword, braced his buckler
on his arm, and attacked the Biscayan, bent upon taking his life.
The Biscayan, when he saw him coming on, though he wished to dismount
from his mule, in which, being one of those sorry ones let out for
hire, he had no confidence, had no choice but to draw his sword; it was
lucky for him, however, that he was near the coach, from which he was
able to snatch a cushion that served him for a shield; and they went at
one another as if they had been two mortal enemies. The others strove
to make peace between them, but could not, for the Biscayan declared in
his disjointed phrase that if they did not let him finish his battle he
would kill his mistress and everyone that strove to prevent him. The
lady in the coach, amazed and terrified at what she saw, ordered the
coachman to draw aside a little, and set herself to watch this severe
struggle, in the course of which the Biscayan smote Don Quixote a
mighty stroke on the shoulder over the top of his buckler, which, given
to one without armour, would have cleft him to the waist. Don Quixote,
feeling the weight of this prodigious blow, cried aloud, saying, “O
lady of my soul, Dulcinea, flower of beauty, come to the aid of this
your knight, who, in fulfilling his obligations to your beauty, finds
himself in this extreme peril.” To say this, to lift his sword, to
shelter himself well behind his buckler, and to assail the Biscayan was
the work of an instant, determined as he was to venture all upon a
single blow. The Biscayan, seeing him come on in this way, was
convinced of his courage by his spirited bearing, and resolved to
follow his example, so he waited for him keeping well under cover of
his cushion, being unable to execute any sort of manoeuvre with his
mule, which, dead tired and never meant for this kind of game, could
not stir a step.
On, then, as aforesaid, came Don Quixote against the wary Biscayan,
with uplifted sword and a firm intention of splitting him in half,
while on his side the Biscayan waited for him sword in hand, and under
the protection of his cushion; and all present stood trembling, waiting
in suspense the result of blows such as threatened to fall, and the
lady in the coach and the rest of her following were making a thousand
vows and offerings to all the images and shrines of Spain, that God
might deliver her squire and all of them from this great peril in which
they found themselves. But it spoils all, that at this point and crisis
the author of the history leaves this battle impending, giving as
excuse that he could find nothing more written about these achievements
of Don Quixote than what has been already set forth. It is true the
second author of this work was unwilling to believe that a history so
curious could have been allowed to fall under the sentence of oblivion,
or that the wits of La Mancha could have been so undiscerning as not to
preserve in their archives or registries some documents referring to
this famous knight; and this being his persuasion, he did not despair
of finding the conclusion of this pleasant history, which, heaven
favouring him, he did find in a way that shall be related in the Second
Part.
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CHAPTER IX.
IN WHICH IS CONCLUDED AND FINISHED THE TERRIFIC BATTLE BETWEEN THE
GALLANT BISCAYAN AND THE VALIANT MANCHEGAN
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In the First Part of this history we left the valiant Biscayan and the
renowned Don Quixote with drawn swords uplifted, ready to deliver two
such furious slashing blows that if they had fallen full and fair they
would at least have split and cleft them asunder from top to toe and
laid them open like a pomegranate; and at this so critical point the
delightful history came to a stop and stood cut short without any
intimation from the author where what was missing was to be found.
This distressed me greatly, because the pleasure derived from having
read such a small portion turned to vexation at the thought of the poor
chance that presented itself of finding the large part that, so it
seemed to me, was missing of such an interesting tale. It appeared to
me to be a thing impossible and contrary to all precedent that so good
a knight should have been without some sage to undertake the task of
writing his marvellous achievements; a thing that was never wanting to
any of those knights-errant who, they say, went after adventures; for
every one of them had one or two sages as if made on purpose, who not
only recorded their deeds but described their most trifling thoughts
and follies, however secret they might be; and such a good knight could
not have been so unfortunate as not to have what Platir and others like
him had in abundance. And so I could not bring myself to believe that
such a gallant tale had been left maimed and mutilated, and I laid the
blame on Time, the devourer and destroyer of all things, that had
either concealed or consumed it.
On the other hand, it struck me that, inasmuch as among his books there
had been found such modern ones as “The Enlightenment of Jealousy” and
the “Nymphs and Shepherds of Henares,” his story must likewise be
modern, and that though it might not be written, it might exist in the
memory of the people of his village and of those in the neighbourhood.
This reflection kept me perplexed and longing to know really and truly
the whole life and wondrous deeds of our famous Spaniard, Don Quixote
of La Mancha, light and mirror of Manchegan chivalry, and the first
that in our age and in these so evil days devoted himself to the labour
and exercise of the arms of knight-errantry, righting wrongs,
succouring widows, and protecting damsels of that sort that used to
ride about, whip in hand, on their palfreys, with all their virginity
about them, from mountain to mountain and valley to valley—for, if it
were not for some ruffian, or boor with a hood and hatchet, or
monstrous giant, that forced them, there were in days of yore damsels
that at the end of eighty years, in all which time they had never slept
a day under a roof, went to their graves as much maids as the mothers
that bore them. I say, then, that in these and other respects our
gallant Don Quixote is worthy of everlasting and notable praise, nor
should it be withheld even from me for the labour and pains spent in
searching for the conclusion of this delightful history; though I know
well that if Heaven, chance and good fortune had not helped me, the
world would have remained deprived of an entertainment and pleasure
that for a couple of hours or so may well occupy him who shall read it
attentively. The discovery of it occurred in this way.
One day, as I was in the Alcana of Toledo, a boy came up to sell some
pamphlets and old papers to a silk mercer, and, as I am fond of reading
even the very scraps of paper in the streets, led by this natural bent
of mine I took up one of the pamphlets the boy had for sale, and saw
that it was in characters which I recognised as Arabic, and as I was
unable to read them though I could recognise them, I looked about to
see if there were any Spanish-speaking Morisco at hand to read them for
me; nor was there any great difficulty in finding such an interpreter,
for even had I sought one for an older and better language I should
have found him. In short, chance provided me with one, who when I told
him what I wanted and put the book into his hands, opened it in the
middle and after reading a little in it began to laugh. I asked him
what he was laughing at, and he replied that it was at something the
book had written in the margin by way of a note. I bade him tell it to
me; and he still laughing said, “In the margin, as I told you, this is
written: ‘_This Dulcinea del Toboso so often mentioned in this history,
had, they say, the best hand of any woman in all La Mancha for salting
pigs_.’”
When I heard Dulcinea del Toboso named, I was struck with surprise and
amazement, for it occurred to me at once that these pamphlets contained
the history of Don Quixote. With this idea I pressed him to read the
beginning, and doing so, turning the Arabic offhand into Castilian, he
told me it meant, “_History of Don Quixote of La Mancha, written by Cid
Hamete Benengeli, an Arab historian_.” It required great caution to
hide the joy I felt when the title of the book reached my ears, and
snatching it from the silk mercer, I bought all the papers and
pamphlets from the boy for half a real; and if he had had his wits
about him and had known how eager I was for them, he might have safely
calculated on making more than six reals by the bargain. I withdrew at
once with the Morisco into the cloister of the cathedral, and begged
him to turn all these pamphlets that related to Don Quixote into the
Castilian tongue, without omitting or adding anything to them, offering
him whatever payment he pleased. He was satisfied with two arrobas of
raisins and two bushels of wheat, and promised to translate them
faithfully and with all despatch; but to make the matter easier, and
not to let such a precious find out of my hands, I took him to my
house, where in little more than a month and a half he translated the
whole just as it is set down here.
In the first pamphlet the battle between Don Quixote and the Biscayan
was drawn to the very life, they planted in the same attitude as the
history describes, their swords raised, and the one protected by his
buckler, the other by his cushion, and the Biscayan’s mule so true to
nature that it could be seen to be a hired one a bowshot off. The
Biscayan had an inscription under his feet which said, “_Don Sancho de
Azpeitia_,” which no doubt must have been his name; and at the feet of
Rocinante was another that said, “_Don Quixote_.” Rocinante was
marvellously portrayed, so long and thin, so lank and lean, with so
much backbone and so far gone in consumption, that he showed plainly
with what judgment and propriety the name of Rocinante had been
bestowed upon him. Near him was Sancho Panza holding the halter of his
ass, at whose feet was another label that said, “Sancho Zancas,” and
according to the picture, he must have had a big belly, a short body,
and long shanks, for which reason, no doubt, the names of Panza and
Zancas were given him, for by these two surnames the history several
times calls him. Some other trifling particulars might be mentioned,
but they are all of slight importance and have nothing to do with the
true relation of the history; and no history can be bad so long as it
is true.
If against the present one any objection be raised on the score of its
truth, it can only be that its author was an Arab, as lying is a very
common propensity with those of that nation; though, as they are such
enemies of ours, it is conceivable that there were omissions rather
than additions made in the course of it. And this is my own opinion;
for, where he could and should give freedom to his pen in praise of so
worthy a knight, he seems to me deliberately to pass it over in
silence; which is ill done and worse contrived, for it is the business
and duty of historians to be exact, truthful, and wholly free from
passion, and neither interest nor fear, hatred nor love, should make
them swerve from the path of truth, whose mother is history, rival of
time, storehouse of deeds, witness for the past, example and counsel
for the present, and warning for the future. In this I know will be
found all that can be desired in the pleasantest, and if it be wanting
in any good quality, I maintain it is the fault of its hound of an
author and not the fault of the subject. To be brief, its Second Part,
according to the translation, began in this way:
With trenchant swords upraised and poised on high, it seemed as though
the two valiant and wrathful combatants stood threatening heaven, and
earth, and hell, with such resolution and determination did they bear
themselves. The fiery Biscayan was the first to strike a blow, which
was delivered with such force and fury that had not the sword turned in
its course, that single stroke would have sufficed to put an end to the
bitter struggle and to all the adventures of our knight; but that good
fortune which reserved him for greater things, turned aside the sword
of his adversary, so that although it smote him upon the left shoulder,
it did him no more harm than to strip all that side of its armour,
carrying away a great part of his helmet with half of his ear, all
which with fearful ruin fell to the ground, leaving him in a sorry
plight.
Good God! Who is there that could properly describe the rage that
filled the heart of our Manchegan when he saw himself dealt with in
this fashion? All that can be said is, it was such that he again raised
himself in his stirrups, and, grasping his sword more firmly with both
hands, he came down on the Biscayan with such fury, smiting him full
over the cushion and over the head, that—even so good a shield proving
useless—as if a mountain had fallen on him, he began to bleed from
nose, mouth, and ears, reeling as if about to fall backwards from his
mule, as no doubt he would have done had he not flung his arms about
its neck; at the same time, however, he slipped his feet out of the
stirrups and then unclasped his arms, and the mule, taking fright at
the terrible blow, made off across the plain, and with a few plunges
flung its master to the ground. Don Quixote stood looking on very
calmly, and, when he saw him fall, leaped from his horse and with great
briskness ran to him, and, presenting the point of his sword to his
eyes, bade him surrender, or he would cut his head off. The Biscayan
was so bewildered that he was unable to answer a word, and it would
have gone hard with him, so blind was Don Quixote, had not the ladies
in the coach, who had hitherto been watching the combat in great
terror, hastened to where he stood and implored him with earnest
entreaties to grant them the great grace and favour of sparing their
squire’s life; to which Don Quixote replied with much gravity and
dignity, “In truth, fair ladies, I am well content to do what ye ask of
me; but it must be on one condition and understanding, which is that
this knight promise me to go to the village of El Toboso, and on my
behalf present himself before the peerless lady Dulcinea, that she deal
with him as shall be most pleasing to her.”
The terrified and disconsolate ladies, without discussing Don Quixote’s
demand or asking who Dulcinea might be, promised that their squire
should do all that had been commanded.
“Then, on the faith of that promise,” said Don Quixote, “I shall do him
no further harm, though he well deserves it of me.”
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CHAPTER X.
OF THE PLEASANT DISCOURSE THAT PASSED BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE AND HIS
SQUIRE SANCHO PANZA
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Now by this time Sancho had risen, rather the worse for the handling of
the friars’ muleteers, and stood watching the battle of his master, Don
Quixote, and praying to God in his heart that it might be his will to
grant him the victory, and that he might thereby win some island to
make him governor of, as he had promised. Seeing, therefore, that the
struggle was now over, and that his master was returning to mount
Rocinante, he approached to hold the stirrup for him, and, before he
could mount, he went on his knees before him, and taking his hand,
kissed it saying, “May it please your worship, Señor Don Quixote, to
give me the government of that island which has been won in this hard
fight, for be it ever so big I feel myself in sufficient force to be
able to govern it as much and as well as anyone in the world who has
ever governed islands.”
To which Don Quixote replied, “Thou must take notice, brother Sancho,
that this adventure and those like it are not adventures of islands,
but of cross-roads, in which nothing is got except a broken head or an
ear the less: have patience, for adventures will present themselves
from which I may make you, not only a governor, but something more.”
Sancho gave him many thanks, and again kissing his hand and the skirt
of his hauberk, helped him to mount Rocinante, and mounting his ass
himself, proceeded to follow his master, who at a brisk pace, without
taking leave, or saying anything further to the ladies belonging to the
coach, turned into a wood that was hard by. Sancho followed him at his
ass’s best trot, but Rocinante stepped out so that, seeing himself left
behind, he was forced to call to his master to wait for him. Don
Quixote did so, reining in Rocinante until his weary squire came up,
who on reaching him said, “It seems to me, señor, it would be prudent
in us to go and take refuge in some church, for, seeing how mauled he
with whom you fought has been left, it will be no wonder if they give
information of the affair to the Holy Brotherhood and arrest us, and,
faith, if they do, before we come out of gaol we shall have to sweat
for it.”
“Peace,” said Don Quixote; “where hast thou ever seen or heard that a
knight-errant has been arraigned before a court of justice, however
many homicides he may have committed?”
“I know nothing about omecils,” answered Sancho, “nor in my life have
had anything to do with one; I only know that the Holy Brotherhood
looks after those who fight in the fields, and in that other matter I
do not meddle.”
“Then thou needst have no uneasiness, my friend,” said Don Quixote,
“for I will deliver thee out of the hands of the Chaldeans, much more
out of those of the Brotherhood. But tell me, as thou livest, hast thou
seen a more valiant knight than I in all the known world; hast thou
read in history of any who has or had higher mettle in attack, more
spirit in maintaining it, more dexterity in wounding or skill in
overthrowing?”
“The truth is,” answered Sancho, “that I have never read any history,
for I can neither read nor write, but what I will venture to bet is
that a more daring master than your worship I have never served in all
the days of my life, and God grant that this daring be not paid for
where I have said; what I beg of your worship is to dress your wound,
for a great deal of blood flows from that ear, and I have here some
lint and a little white ointment in the alforjas.”
“All that might be well dispensed with,” said Don Quixote, “if I had
remembered to make a vial of the balsam of Fierabras, for time and
medicine are saved by one single drop.”
“What vial and what balsam is that?” said Sancho Panza.
“It is a balsam,” answered Don Quixote, “the receipt of which I have in
my memory, with which one need have no fear of death, or dread dying of
any wound; and so when I make it and give it to thee thou hast nothing
to do when in some battle thou seest they have cut me in half through
the middle of the body—as is wont to happen frequently—but neatly and
with great nicety, ere the blood congeal, to place that portion of the
body which shall have fallen to the ground upon the other half which
remains in the saddle, taking care to fit it on evenly and exactly.
Then thou shalt give me to drink but two drops of the balsam I have
mentioned, and thou shalt see me become sounder than an apple.”
“If that be so,” said Panza, “I renounce henceforth the government of
the promised island, and desire nothing more in payment of my many and
faithful services than that your worship give me the receipt of this
supreme liquor, for I am persuaded it will be worth more than two reals
an ounce anywhere, and I want no more to pass the rest of my life in
ease and honour; but it remains to be told if it costs much to make
it.”
“With less than three reals, six quarts of it may be made,” said Don
Quixote.
“Sinner that I am!” said Sancho, “then why does your worship put off
making it and teaching it to me?”
“Peace, friend,” answered Don Quixote; “greater secrets I mean to teach
thee and greater favours to bestow upon thee; and for the present let
us see to the dressing, for my ear pains me more than I could wish.”
Sancho took out some lint and ointment from the alforjas; but when Don
Quixote came to see his helmet shattered, he was like to lose his
senses, and clapping his hand upon his sword and raising his eyes to
heaven, he said, “I swear by the Creator of all things and the four
Gospels in their fullest extent, to do as the great Marquis of Mantua
did when he swore to avenge the death of his nephew Baldwin (and that
was not to eat bread from a table-cloth, nor embrace his wife, and
other points which, though I cannot now call them to mind, I here grant
as expressed) until I take complete vengeance upon him who has
committed such an offence against me.”
Hearing this, Sancho said to him, “Your worship should bear in mind,
Señor Don Quixote, that if the knight has done what was commanded him
in going to present himself before my lady Dulcinea del Toboso, he will
have done all that he was bound to do, and does not deserve further
punishment unless he commits some new offence.”
“Thou hast said well and hit the point,” answered Don Quixote; and so I
recall the oath in so far as relates to taking fresh vengeance on him,
but I make and confirm it anew to lead the life I have said until such
time as I take by force from some knight another helmet such as this
and as good; and think not, Sancho, that I am raising smoke with straw
in doing so, for I have one to imitate in the matter, since the very
same thing to a hair happened in the case of Mambrino’s helmet, which
cost Sacripante so dear.”
“Señor,” replied Sancho, “let your worship send all such oaths to the
devil, for they are very pernicious to salvation and prejudicial to the
conscience; just tell me now, if for several days to come we fall in
with no man armed with a helmet, what are we to do? Is the oath to be
observed in spite of all the inconvenience and discomfort it will be to
sleep in your clothes, and not to sleep in a house, and a thousand
other mortifications contained in the oath of that old fool the Marquis
of Mantua, which your worship is now wanting to revive? Let your
worship observe that there are no men in armour travelling on any of
these roads, nothing but carriers and carters, who not only do not wear
helmets, but perhaps never heard tell of them all their lives.”
“Thou art wrong there,” said Don Quixote, “for we shall not have been
above two hours among these cross-roads before we see more men in
armour than came to Albraca to win the fair Angelica.”
“Enough,” said Sancho; “so be it then, and God grant us success, and
that the time for winning that island which is costing me so dear may
soon come, and then let me die.”
“I have already told thee, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “not to give
thyself any uneasiness on that score; for if an island should fail,
there is the kingdom of Denmark, or of Sobradisa, which will fit thee
as a ring fits the finger, and all the more that, being on _terra
firma_, thou wilt all the better enjoy thyself. But let us leave that
to its own time; see if thou hast anything for us to eat in those
alforjas, because we must presently go in quest of some castle where we
may lodge to-night and make the balsam I told thee of, for I swear to
thee by God, this ear is giving me great pain.”
“I have here an onion and a little cheese and a few scraps of bread,”
said Sancho, “but they are not victuals fit for a valiant knight like
your worship.”
“How little thou knowest about it,” answered Don Quixote; “I would have
thee to know, Sancho, that it is the glory of knights-errant to go
without eating for a month, and even when they do eat, that it should
be of what comes first to hand; and this would have been clear to thee
hadst thou read as many histories as I have, for, though they are very
many, among them all I have found no mention made of knights-errant
eating, unless by accident or at some sumptuous banquets prepared for
them, and the rest of the time they passed in dalliance. And though it
is plain they could not do without eating and performing all the other
natural functions, because, in fact, they were men like ourselves, it
is plain too that, wandering as they did the most part of their lives
through woods and wilds and without a cook, their most usual fare would
be rustic viands such as those thou now offer me; so that, friend
Sancho, let not that distress thee which pleases me, and do not seek to
make a new world or pervert knight-errantry.”
“Pardon me, your worship,” said Sancho, “for, as I cannot read or
write, as I said just now, I neither know nor comprehend the rules of
the profession of chivalry: henceforward I will stock the alforjas with
every kind of dry fruit for your worship, as you are a knight; and for
myself, as I am not one, I will furnish them with poultry and other
things more substantial.”
“I do not say, Sancho,” replied Don Quixote, “that it is imperative on
knights-errant not to eat anything else but the fruits thou speakest
of; only that their more usual diet must be those, and certain herbs
they found in the fields which they knew and I know too.”
“A good thing it is,” answered Sancho, “to know those herbs, for to my
thinking it will be needful some day to put that knowledge into
practice.”
And here taking out what he said he had brought, the pair made their
repast peaceably and sociably. But anxious to find quarters for the
night, they with all despatch made an end of their poor dry fare,
mounted at once, and made haste to reach some habitation before night
set in; but daylight and the hope of succeeding in their object failed
them close by the huts of some goatherds, so they determined to pass
the night there, and it was as much to Sancho’s discontent not to have
reached a house, as it was to his master’s satisfaction to sleep under
the open heaven, for he fancied that each time this happened to him he
performed an act of ownership that helped to prove his chivalry.
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CHAPTER XI.
WHAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE WITH CERTAIN GOATHERDS
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He was cordially welcomed by the goatherds, and Sancho, having as best
he could put up Rocinante and the ass, drew towards the fragrance that
came from some pieces of salted goat simmering in a pot on the fire;
and though he would have liked at once to try if they were ready to be
transferred from the pot to the stomach, he refrained from doing so as
the goatherds removed them from the fire, and laying sheepskins on the
ground, quickly spread their rude table, and with signs of hearty
good-will invited them both to share what they had. Round the skins six
of the men belonging to the fold seated themselves, having first with
rough politeness pressed Don Quixote to take a seat upon a trough which
they placed for him upside down. Don Quixote seated himself, and Sancho
remained standing to serve the cup, which was made of horn. Seeing him
standing, his master said to him:
“That thou mayest see, Sancho, the good that knight-errantry contains
in itself, and how those who fill any office in it are on the high road
to be speedily honoured and esteemed by the world, I desire that thou
seat thyself here at my side and in the company of these worthy people,
and that thou be one with me who am thy master and natural lord, and
that thou eat from my plate and drink from whatever I drink from; for
the same may be said of knight-errantry as of love, that it levels
all.”
“Great thanks,” said Sancho, “but I may tell your worship that provided
I have enough to eat, I can eat it as well, or better, standing, and by
myself, than seated alongside of an emperor. And indeed, if the truth
is to be told, what I eat in my corner without form or fuss has much
more relish for me, even though it be bread and onions, than the
turkeys of those other tables where I am forced to chew slowly, drink
little, wipe my mouth every minute, and cannot sneeze or cough if I
want or do other things that are the privileges of liberty and
solitude. So, señor, as for these honours which your worship would put
upon me as a servant and follower of knight-errantry, exchange them for
other things which may be of more use and advantage to me; for these,
though I fully acknowledge them as received, I renounce from this
moment to the end of the world.”
“For all that,” said Don Quixote, “thou must seat thyself, because him
who humbleth himself God exalteth;” and seizing him by the arm he
forced him to sit down beside himself.
The goatherds did not understand this jargon about squires and
knights-errant, and all they did was to eat in silence and stare at
their guests, who with great elegance and appetite were stowing away
pieces as big as one’s fist. The course of meat finished, they spread
upon the sheepskins a great heap of parched acorns, and with them they
put down a half cheese harder than if it had been made of mortar. All
this while the horn was not idle, for it went round so constantly, now
full, now empty, like the bucket of a water-wheel, that it soon drained
one of the two wine-skins that were in sight. When Don Quixote had
quite appeased his appetite he took up a handful of the acorns, and
contemplating them attentively delivered himself somewhat in this
fashion:
“Happy the age, happy the time, to which the ancients gave the name of
golden, not because in that fortunate age the gold so coveted in this
our iron one was gained without toil, but because they that lived in it
knew not the two words “_mine_” and “_thine_”! In that blessed age all
things were in common; to win the daily food no labour was required of
any save to stretch forth his hand and gather it from the sturdy oaks
that stood generously inviting him with their sweet ripe fruit. The
clear streams and running brooks yielded their savoury limpid waters in
noble abundance. The busy and sagacious bees fixed their republic in
the clefts of the rocks and hollows of the trees, offering without
usance the plenteous produce of their fragrant toil to every hand. The
mighty cork trees, unenforced save of their own courtesy, shed the
broad light bark that served at first to roof the houses supported by
rude stakes, a protection against the inclemency of heaven alone. Then
all was peace, all friendship, all concord; as yet the dull share of
the crooked plough had not dared to rend and pierce the tender bowels
of our first mother that without compulsion yielded from every portion
of her broad fertile bosom all that could satisfy, sustain, and delight
the children that then possessed her. Then was it that the innocent and
fair young shepherdess roamed from vale to vale and hill to hill, with
flowing locks, and no more garments than were needful modestly to cover
what modesty seeks and ever sought to hide. Nor were their ornaments
like those in use to-day, set off by Tyrian purple, and silk tortured
in endless fashions, but the wreathed leaves of the green dock and ivy,
wherewith they went as bravely and becomingly decked as our Court dames
with all the rare and far-fetched artifices that idle curiosity has
taught them. Then the love-thoughts of the heart clothed themselves
simply and naturally as the heart conceived them, nor sought to commend
themselves by forced and rambling verbiage. Fraud, deceit, or malice
had then not yet mingled with truth and sincerity. Justice held her
ground, undisturbed and unassailed by the efforts of favour and of
interest, that now so much impair, pervert, and beset her. Arbitrary
law had not yet established itself in the mind of the judge, for then
there was no cause to judge and no one to be judged. Maidens and
modesty, as I have said, wandered at will alone and unattended, without
fear of insult from lawlessness or libertine assault, and if they were
undone it was of their own will and pleasure. But now in this hateful
age of ours not one is safe, not though some new labyrinth like that of
Crete conceal and surround her; even there the pestilence of gallantry
will make its way to them through chinks or on the air by the zeal of
its accursed importunity, and, despite of all seclusion, lead them to
ruin. In defence of these, as time advanced and wickedness increased,
the order of knights-errant was instituted, to defend maidens, to
protect widows and to succour the orphans and the needy. To this order
I belong, brother goatherds, to whom I return thanks for the
hospitality and kindly welcome ye offer me and my squire; for though by
natural law all living are bound to show favour to knights-errant, yet,
seeing that without knowing this obligation ye have welcomed and
feasted me, it is right that with all the good-will in my power I
should thank you for yours.”
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All this long harangue (which might very well have been spared) our
knight delivered because the acorns they gave him reminded him of the
golden age; and the whim seized him to address all this unnecessary
argument to the goatherds, who listened to him gaping in amazement
without saying a word in reply. Sancho likewise held his peace and ate
acorns, and paid repeated visits to the second wine-skin, which they
had hung up on a cork tree to keep the wine cool.
Don Quixote was longer in talking than the supper in finishing, at the
end of which one of the goatherds said, “That your worship, señor
knight-errant, may say with more truth that we show you hospitality
with ready good-will, we will give you amusement and pleasure by making
one of our comrades sing: he will be here before long, and he is a very
intelligent youth and deep in love, and what is more he can read and
write and play on the rebeck to perfection.”
The goatherd had hardly done speaking, when the notes of the rebeck
reached their ears; and shortly after, the player came up, a very
good-looking young man of about two-and-twenty. His comrades asked him
if he had supped, and on his replying that he had, he who had already
made the offer said to him:
“In that case, Antonio, thou mayest as well do us the pleasure of
singing a little, that the gentleman, our guest, may see that even in
the mountains and woods there are musicians: we have told him of thy
accomplishments, and we want thee to show them and prove that we say
true; so, as thou livest, pray sit down and sing that ballad about thy
love that thy uncle the prebendary made thee, and that was so much
liked in the town.”
“With all my heart,” said the young man, and without waiting for more
pressing he seated himself on the trunk of a felled oak, and tuning his
rebeck, presently began to sing to these words.
ANTONIO’S BALLAD
Thou dost love me well, Olalla;
Well I know it, even though
Love’s mute tongues, thine eyes, have never
By their glances told me so.
For I know my love thou knowest,
Therefore thine to claim I dare:
Once it ceases to be secret,
Love need never feel despair.
True it is, Olalla, sometimes
Thou hast all too plainly shown
That thy heart is brass in hardness,
And thy snowy bosom stone.
Yet for all that, in thy coyness,
And thy fickle fits between,
Hope is there—at least the border
Of her garment may be seen.
Lures to faith are they, those glimpses,
And to faith in thee I hold;
Kindness cannot make it stronger,
Coldness cannot make it cold.
If it be that love is gentle,
In thy gentleness I see
Something holding out assurance
To the hope of winning thee.
If it be that in devotion
Lies a power hearts to move,
That which every day I show thee,
Helpful to my suit should prove.
Many a time thou must have noticed—
If to notice thou dost care—
How I go about on Monday
Dressed in all my Sunday wear.
Love’s eyes love to look on brightness;
Love loves what is gaily drest;
Sunday, Monday, all I care is
Thou shouldst see me in my best.
No account I make of dances,
Or of strains that pleased thee so,
Keeping thee awake from midnight
Till the cocks began to crow;
Or of how I roundly swore it
That there’s none so fair as thou;
True it is, but as I said it,
By the girls I’m hated now.
For Teresa of the hillside
At my praise of thee was sore;
Said, “You think you love an angel;
It’s a monkey you adore;
“Caught by all her glittering trinkets,
And her borrowed braids of hair,
And a host of made-up beauties
That would Love himself ensnare.”
’Twas a lie, and so I told her,
And her cousin at the word
Gave me his defiance for it;
And what followed thou hast heard.
Mine is no high-flown affection,
Mine no passion _par amours_—
As they call it—what I offer
Is an honest love, and pure.
Cunning cords the holy Church has,
Cords of softest silk they be;
Put thy neck beneath the yoke, dear;
Mine will follow, thou wilt see.
Else—and once for all I swear it
By the saint of most renown—
If I ever quit the mountains,
’Twill be in a friar’s gown.
Here the goatherd brought his song to an end, and though Don Quixote
entreated him to sing more, Sancho had no mind that way, being more
inclined for sleep than for listening to songs; so said he to his
master, “Your worship will do well to settle at once where you mean to
pass the night, for the labour these good men are at all day does not
allow them to spend the night in singing.”
“I understand thee, Sancho,” replied Don Quixote; “I perceive clearly
that those visits to the wine-skin demand compensation in sleep rather
than in music.”
“It’s sweet to us all, blessed be God,” said Sancho.
“I do not deny it,” replied Don Quixote; “but settle thyself where thou
wilt; those of my calling are more becomingly employed in watching than
in sleeping; still it would be as well if thou wert to dress this ear
for me again, for it is giving me more pain than it need.”
Sancho did as he bade him, but one of the goatherds, seeing the wound,
told him not to be uneasy, as he would apply a remedy with which it
would be soon healed; and gathering some leaves of rosemary, of which
there was a great quantity there, he chewed them and mixed them with a
little salt, and applying them to the ear he secured them firmly with a
bandage, assuring him that no other treatment would be required, and so
it proved.
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CHAPTER XII.
OF WHAT A GOATHERD RELATED TO THOSE WITH DON QUIXOTE
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Just then another young man, one of those who fetched their provisions
from the village, came up and said, “Do you know what is going on in
the village, comrades?”
“How could we know it?” replied one of them.
“Well, then, you must know,” continued the young man, “this morning
that famous student-shepherd called Chrysostom died, and it is rumoured
that he died of love for that devil of a village girl the daughter of
Guillermo the Rich, she that wanders about the wolds here in the dress
of a shepherdess.”
“You mean Marcela?” said one.
“Her I mean,” answered the goatherd; “and the best of it is, he has
directed in his will that he is to be buried in the fields like a Moor,
and at the foot of the rock where the Cork-tree spring is, because, as
the story goes (and they say he himself said so), that was the place
where he first saw her. And he has also left other directions which the
clergy of the village say should not and must not be obeyed because
they savour of paganism. To all which his great friend Ambrosio the
student, he who, like him, also went dressed as a shepherd, replies
that everything must be done without any omission according to the
directions left by Chrysostom, and about this the village is all in
commotion; however, report says that, after all, what Ambrosio and all
the shepherds his friends desire will be done, and to-morrow they are
coming to bury him with great ceremony where I said. I am sure it will
be something worth seeing; at least I will not fail to go and see it
even if I knew I should not return to the village to-morrow.”
“We will do the same,” answered the goatherds, “and cast lots to see
who must stay to mind the goats of all.”
“Thou sayest well, Pedro,” said one, “though there will be no need of
taking that trouble, for I will stay behind for all; and don’t suppose
it is virtue or want of curiosity in me; it is that the splinter that
ran into my foot the other day will not let me walk.”
“For all that, we thank thee,” answered Pedro.
Don Quixote asked Pedro to tell him who the dead man was and who the
shepherdess, to which Pedro replied that all he knew was that the dead
man was a wealthy gentleman belonging to a village in those mountains,
who had been a student at Salamanca for many years, at the end of which
he returned to his village with the reputation of being very learned
and deeply read. “Above all, they said, he was learned in the science
of the stars and of what went on yonder in the heavens and the sun and
the moon, for he told us of the cris of the sun and moon to exact
time.”
“Eclipse it is called, friend, not cris, the darkening of those two
luminaries,” said Don Quixote; but Pedro, not troubling himself with
trifles, went on with his story, saying, “Also he foretold when the
year was going to be one of abundance or estility.”
“Sterility, you mean,” said Don Quixote.
“Sterility or estility,” answered Pedro, “it is all the same in the
end. And I can tell you that by this his father and friends who
believed him grew very rich because they did as he advised them,
bidding them ‘sow barley this year, not wheat; this year you may sow
pulse and not barley; the next there will be a full oil crop, and the
three following not a drop will be got.’”
“That science is called astrology,” said Don Quixote.
“I do not know what it is called,” replied Pedro, “but I know that he
knew all this and more besides. But, to make an end, not many months
had passed after he returned from Salamanca, when one day he appeared
dressed as a shepherd with his crook and sheepskin, having put off the
long gown he wore as a scholar; and at the same time his great friend,
Ambrosio by name, who had been his companion in his studies, took to
the shepherd’s dress with him. I forgot to say that Chrysostom, who is
dead, was a great man for writing verses, so much so that he made
carols for Christmas Eve, and plays for Corpus Christi, which the young
men of our village acted, and all said they were excellent. When the
villagers saw the two scholars so unexpectedly appearing in shepherd’s
dress, they were lost in wonder, and could not guess what had led them
to make so extraordinary a change. About this time the father of our
Chrysostom died, and he was left heir to a large amount of property in
chattels as well as in land, no small number of cattle and sheep, and a
large sum of money, of all of which the young man was left dissolute
owner, and indeed he was deserving of it all, for he was a very good
comrade, and kind-hearted, and a friend of worthy folk, and had a
countenance like a benediction. Presently it came to be known that he
had changed his dress with no other object than to wander about these
wastes after that shepherdess Marcela our lad mentioned a while ago,
with whom the deceased Chrysostom had fallen in love. And I must tell
you now, for it is well you should know it, who this girl is; perhaps,
and even without any perhaps, you will not have heard anything like it
all the days of your life, though you should live more years than
sarna.”
“Say Sarra,” said Don Quixote, unable to endure the goatherd’s
confusion of words.
“The sarna lives long enough,” answered Pedro; “and if, señor, you must
go finding fault with words at every step, we shall not make an end of
it this twelvemonth.”
“Pardon me, friend,” said Don Quixote; “but, as there is such a
difference between sarna and Sarra, I told you of it; however, you have
answered very rightly, for sarna lives longer than Sarra: so continue
your story, and I will not object any more to anything.”
“I say then, my dear sir,” said the goatherd, “that in our village
there was a farmer even richer than the father of Chrysostom, who was
named Guillermo, and upon whom God bestowed, over and above great
wealth, a daughter at whose birth her mother died, the most respected
woman there was in this neighbourhood; I fancy I can see her now with
that countenance which had the sun on one side and the moon on the
other; and moreover active, and kind to the poor, for which I trust
that at the present moment her soul is in bliss with God in the other
world. Her husband Guillermo died of grief at the death of so good a
wife, leaving his daughter Marcela, a child and rich, to the care of an
uncle of hers, a priest and prebendary in our village. The girl grew up
with such beauty that it reminded us of her mother’s, which was very
great, and yet it was thought that the daughter’s would exceed it; and
so when she reached the age of fourteen to fifteen years nobody beheld
her but blessed God that had made her so beautiful, and the greater
number were in love with her past redemption. Her uncle kept her in
great seclusion and retirement, but for all that the fame of her great
beauty spread so that, as well for it as for her great wealth, her
uncle was asked, solicited, and importuned, to give her in marriage not
only by those of our town but of those many leagues round, and by the
persons of highest quality in them. But he, being a good Christian man,
though he desired to give her in marriage at once, seeing her to be old
enough, was unwilling to do so without her consent, not that he had any
eye to the gain and profit which the custody of the girl’s property
brought him while he put off her marriage; and, faith, this was said in
praise of the good priest in more than one set in the town. For I would
have you know, Sir Errant, that in these little villages everything is
talked about and everything is carped at, and rest assured, as I am,
that the priest must be over and above good who forces his parishioners
to speak well of him, especially in villages.”
“That is the truth,” said Don Quixote; “but go on, for the story is
very good, and you, good Pedro, tell it with very good grace.”
“May that of the Lord not be wanting to me,” said Pedro; “that is the
one to have. To proceed; you must know that though the uncle put before
his niece and described to her the qualities of each one in particular
of the many who had asked her in marriage, begging her to marry and
make a choice according to her own taste, she never gave any other
answer than that she had no desire to marry just yet, and that being so
young she did not think herself fit to bear the burden of matrimony. At
these, to all appearance, reasonable excuses that she made, her uncle
ceased to urge her, and waited till she was somewhat more advanced in
age and could mate herself to her own liking. For, said he—and he said
quite right—parents are not to settle children in life against their
will. But when one least looked for it, lo and behold! one day the
demure Marcela makes her appearance turned shepherdess; and, in spite
of her uncle and all those of the town that strove to dissuade her,
took to going a-field with the other shepherd-lasses of the village,
and tending her own flock. And so, since she appeared in public, and
her beauty came to be seen openly, I could not well tell you how many
rich youths, gentlemen and peasants, have adopted the costume of
Chrysostom, and go about these fields making love to her. One of these,
as has been already said, was our deceased friend, of whom they say
that he did not love but adore her. But you must not suppose, because
Marcela chose a life of such liberty and independence, and of so little
or rather no retirement, that she has given any occasion, or even the
semblance of one, for disparagement of her purity and modesty; on the
contrary, such and so great is the vigilance with which she watches
over her honour, that of all those that court and woo her not one has
boasted, or can with truth boast, that she has given him any hope
however small of obtaining his desire. For although she does not avoid
or shun the society and conversation of the shepherds, and treats them
courteously and kindly, should any one of them come to declare his
intention to her, though it be one as proper and holy as that of
matrimony, she flings him from her like a catapult. And with this kind
of disposition she does more harm in this country than if the plague
had got into it, for her affability and her beauty draw on the hearts
of those that associate with her to love her and to court her, but her
scorn and her frankness bring them to the brink of despair; and so they
know not what to say save to proclaim her aloud cruel and hard-hearted,
and other names of the same sort which well describe the nature of her
character; and if you should remain here any time, señor, you would
hear these hills and valleys resounding with the laments of the
rejected ones who pursue her. Not far from this there is a spot where
there are a couple of dozen of tall beeches, and there is not one of
them but has carved and written on its smooth bark the name of Marcela,
and above some a crown carved on the same tree as though her lover
would say more plainly that Marcela wore and deserved that of all human
beauty. Here one shepherd is sighing, there another is lamenting; there
love songs are heard, here despairing elegies. One will pass all the
hours of the night seated at the foot of some oak or rock, and there,
without having closed his weeping eyes, the sun finds him in the
morning bemused and bereft of sense; and another without relief or
respite to his sighs, stretched on the burning sand in the full heat of
the sultry summer noontide, makes his appeal to the compassionate
heavens, and over one and the other, over these and all, the beautiful
Marcela triumphs free and careless. And all of us that know her are
waiting to see what her pride will come to, and who is to be the happy
man that will succeed in taming a nature so formidable and gaining
possession of a beauty so supreme. All that I have told you being such
well-established truth, I am persuaded that what they say of the cause
of Chrysostom’s death, as our lad told us, is the same. And so I advise
you, señor, fail not to be present to-morrow at his burial, which will
be well worth seeing, for Chrysostom had many friends, and it is not
half a league from this place to where he directed he should be
buried.”
“I will make a point of it,” said Don Quixote, “and I thank you for the
pleasure you have given me by relating so interesting a tale.”
“Oh,” said the goatherd, “I do not know even the half of what has
happened to the lovers of Marcela, but perhaps to-morrow we may fall in
with some shepherd on the road who can tell us; and now it will be well
for you to go and sleep under cover, for the night air may hurt your
wound, though with the remedy I have applied to you there is no fear of
an untoward result.”
Sancho Panza, who was wishing the goatherd’s loquacity at the devil, on
his part begged his master to go into Pedro’s hut to sleep. He did so,
and passed all the rest of the night in thinking of his lady Dulcinea,
in imitation of the lovers of Marcela. Sancho Panza settled himself
between Rocinante and his ass, and slept, not like a lover who had been
discarded, but like a man who had been soundly kicked.
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CHAPTER XIII.
IN WHICH IS ENDED THE STORY OF THE SHEPHERDESS MARCELA, WITH OTHER
INCIDENTS
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But hardly had day begun to show itself through the balconies of the
east, when five of the six goatherds came to rouse Don Quixote and tell
him that if he was still of a mind to go and see the famous burial of
Chrysostom they would bear him company. Don Quixote, who desired
nothing better, rose and ordered Sancho to saddle and pannel at once,
which he did with all despatch, and with the same they all set out
forthwith. They had not gone a quarter of a league when at the meeting
of two paths they saw coming towards them some six shepherds dressed in
black sheepskins and with their heads crowned with garlands of cypress
and bitter oleander. Each of them carried a stout holly staff in his
hand, and along with them there came two men of quality on horseback in
handsome travelling dress, with three servants on foot accompanying
them. Courteous salutations were exchanged on meeting, and inquiring
one of the other which way each party was going, they learned that all
were bound for the scene of the burial, so they went on all together.
One of those on horseback addressing his companion said to him, “It
seems to me, Señor Vivaldo, that we may reckon as well spent the delay
we shall incur in seeing this remarkable funeral, for remarkable it
cannot but be judging by the strange things these shepherds have told
us, of both the dead shepherd and homicide shepherdess.”
“So I think too,” replied Vivaldo, “and I would delay not to say a day,
but four, for the sake of seeing it.”
Don Quixote asked them what it was they had heard of Marcela and
Chrysostom. The traveller answered that the same morning they had met
these shepherds, and seeing them dressed in this mournful fashion they
had asked them the reason of their appearing in such a guise; which one
of them gave, describing the strange behaviour and beauty of a
shepherdess called Marcela, and the loves of many who courted her,
together with the death of that Chrysostom to whose burial they were
going. In short, he repeated all that Pedro had related to Don Quixote.
This conversation dropped, and another was commenced by him who was
called Vivaldo asking Don Quixote what was the reason that led him to
go armed in that fashion in a country so peaceful. To which Don Quixote
replied, “The pursuit of my calling does not allow or permit me to go
in any other fashion; easy life, enjoyment, and repose were invented
for soft courtiers, but toil, unrest, and arms were invented and made
for those alone whom the world calls knights-errant, of whom I, though
unworthy, am the least of all.”
The instant they heard this all set him down as mad, and the better to
settle the point and discover what kind of madness his was, Vivaldo
proceeded to ask him what knights-errant meant.
“Have not your worships,” replied Don Quixote, “read the annals and
histories of England, in which are recorded the famous deeds of King
Arthur, whom we in our popular Castilian invariably call King Artus,
with regard to whom it is an ancient tradition, and commonly received
all over that kingdom of Great Britain, that this king did not die, but
was changed by magic art into a raven, and that in process of time he
is to return to reign and recover his kingdom and sceptre; for which
reason it cannot be proved that from that time to this any Englishman
ever killed a raven? Well, then, in the time of this good king that
famous order of chivalry of the Knights of the Round Table was
instituted, and the amour of Don Lancelot of the Lake with the Queen
Guinevere occurred, precisely as is there related, the go-between and
confidante therein being the highly honourable dame Quintañona, whence
came that ballad so well known and widely spread in our Spain—
O never surely was there knight
So served by hand of dame,
As served was he Sir Lancelot hight
When he from Britain came—
with all the sweet and delectable course of his achievements in love
and war. Handed down from that time, then, this order of chivalry went
on extending and spreading itself over many and various parts of the
world; and in it, famous and renowned for their deeds, were the mighty
Amadis of Gaul with all his sons and descendants to the fifth
generation, and the valiant Felixmarte of Hircania, and the never
sufficiently praised Tirante el Blanco, and in our own days almost we
have seen and heard and talked with the invincible knight Don Belianis
of Greece. This, then, sirs, is to be a knight-errant, and what I have
spoken of is the order of his chivalry, of which, as I have already
said, I, though a sinner, have made profession, and what the aforesaid
knights professed that same do I profess, and so I go through these
solitudes and wilds seeking adventures, resolved in soul to oppose my
arm and person to the most perilous that fortune may offer me in aid of
the weak and needy.”
By these words of his the travellers were able to satisfy themselves of
Don Quixote’s being out of his senses and of the form of madness that
overmastered him, at which they felt the same astonishment that all
felt on first becoming acquainted with it; and Vivaldo, who was a
person of great shrewdness and of a lively temperament, in order to
beguile the short journey which they said was required to reach the
mountain, the scene of the burial, sought to give him an opportunity of
going on with his absurdities. So he said to him, “It seems to me,
Señor Knight-errant, that your worship has made choice of one of the
most austere professions in the world, and I imagine even that of the
Carthusian monks is not so austere.”
“As austere it may perhaps be,” replied our Don Quixote, “but so
necessary for the world I am very much inclined to doubt. For, if the
truth is to be told, the soldier who executes what his captain orders
does no less than the captain himself who gives the order. My meaning,
is, that churchmen in peace and quiet pray to Heaven for the welfare of
the world, but we soldiers and knights carry into effect what they pray
for, defending it with the might of our arms and the edge of our
swords, not under shelter but in the open air, a target for the
intolerable rays of the sun in summer and the piercing frosts of
winter. Thus are we God’s ministers on earth and the arms by which his
justice is done therein. And as the business of war and all that
relates and belongs to it cannot be conducted without exceeding great
sweat, toil, and exertion, it follows that those who make it their
profession have undoubtedly more labour than those who in tranquil
peace and quiet are engaged in praying to God to help the weak. I do
not mean to say, nor does it enter into my thoughts, that the
knight-errant’s calling is as good as that of the monk in his cell; I
would merely infer from what I endure myself that it is beyond a doubt
a more laborious and a more belaboured one, a hungrier and thirstier, a
wretcheder, raggeder, and lousier; for there is no reason to doubt that
the knights-errant of yore endured much hardship in the course of their
lives. And if some of them by the might of their arms did rise to be
emperors, in faith it cost them dear in the matter of blood and sweat;
and if those who attained to that rank had not had magicians and sages
to help them they would have been completely baulked in their ambition
and disappointed in their hopes.”
“That is my own opinion,” replied the traveller; “but one thing among
many others seems to me very wrong in knights-errant, and that is that
when they find themselves about to engage in some mighty and perilous
adventure in which there is manifest danger of losing their lives, they
never at the moment of engaging in it think of commending themselves to
God, as is the duty of every good Christian in like peril; instead of
which they commend themselves to their ladies with as much devotion as
if these were their gods, a thing which seems to me to savour somewhat
of heathenism.”
“Sir,” answered Don Quixote, “that cannot be on any account omitted,
and the knight-errant would be disgraced who acted otherwise: for it is
usual and customary in knight-errantry that the knight-errant, who on
engaging in any great feat of arms has his lady before him, should turn
his eyes towards her softly and lovingly, as though with them
entreating her to favour and protect him in the hazardous venture he is
about to undertake, and even though no one hear him, he is bound to say
certain words between his teeth, commending himself to her with all his
heart, and of this we have innumerable instances in the histories. Nor
is it to be supposed from this that they are to omit commending
themselves to God, for there will be time and opportunity for doing so
while they are engaged in their task.”
“For all that,” answered the traveller, “I feel some doubt still,
because often I have read how words will arise between two
knights-errant, and from one thing to another it comes about that their
anger kindles and they wheel their horses round and take a good stretch
of field, and then without any more ado at the top of their speed they
come to the charge, and in mid-career they are wont to commend
themselves to their ladies; and what commonly comes of the encounter is
that one falls over the haunches of his horse pierced through and
through by his antagonist’s lance, and as for the other, it is only by
holding on to the mane of his horse that he can help falling to the
ground; but I know not how the dead man had time to commend himself to
God in the course of such rapid work as this; it would have been better
if those words which he spent in commending himself to his lady in the
midst of his career had been devoted to his duty and obligation as a
Christian. Moreover, it is my belief that all knights-errant have not
ladies to commend themselves to, for they are not all in love.”
“That is impossible,” said Don Quixote: “I say it is impossible that
there could be a knight-errant without a lady, because to such it is as
natural and proper to be in love as to the heavens to have stars: most
certainly no history has been seen in which there is to be found a
knight-errant without an amour, and for the simple reason that without
one he would be held no legitimate knight but a bastard, and one who
had gained entrance into the stronghold of the said knighthood, not by
the door, but over the wall like a thief and a robber.”
“Nevertheless,” said the traveller, “if I remember rightly, I think I
have read that Don Galaor, the brother of the valiant Amadis of Gaul,
never had any special lady to whom he might commend himself, and yet he
was not the less esteemed, and was a very stout and famous knight.”
To which our Don Quixote made answer, “Sir, one solitary swallow does
not make summer; moreover, I know that knight was in secret very deeply
in love; besides which, that way of falling in love with all that took
his fancy was a natural propensity which he could not control. But, in
short, it is very manifest that he had one alone whom he made mistress
of his will, to whom he commended himself very frequently and very
secretly, for he prided himself on being a reticent knight.”
“Then if it be essential that every knight-errant should be in love,”
said the traveller, “it may be fairly supposed that your worship is so,
as you are of the order; and if you do not pride yourself on being as
reticent as Don Galaor, I entreat you as earnestly as I can, in the
name of all this company and in my own, to inform us of the name,
country, rank, and beauty of your lady, for she will esteem herself
fortunate if all the world knows that she is loved and served by such a
knight as your worship seems to be.”
At this Don Quixote heaved a deep sigh and said, “I cannot say
positively whether my sweet enemy is pleased or not that the world
should know I serve her; I can only say in answer to what has been so
courteously asked of me, that her name is Dulcinea, her country El
Toboso, a village of La Mancha, her rank must be at least that of a
princess, since she is my queen and lady, and her beauty superhuman,
since all the impossible and fanciful attributes of beauty which the
poets apply to their ladies are verified in her; for her hairs are
gold, her forehead Elysian fields, her eyebrows rainbows, her eyes
suns, her cheeks roses, her lips coral, her teeth pearls, her neck
alabaster, her bosom marble, her hands ivory, her fairness snow, and
what modesty conceals from sight such, I think and imagine, as rational
reflection can only extol, not compare.”
“We should like to know her lineage, race, and ancestry,” said Vivaldo.
To which Don Quixote replied, “She is not of the ancient Roman Curtii,
Caii, or Scipios, nor of the modern Colonnas or Orsini, nor of the
Moncadas or Requesenes of Catalonia, nor yet of the Rebellas or
Villanovas of Valencia; Palafoxes, Nuzas, Rocabertis, Corellas, Lunas,
Alagones, Urreas, Foces, or Gurreas of Aragon; Cerdas, Manriques,
Mendozas, or Guzmans of Castile; Alencastros, Pallas, or Meneses of
Portugal; but she is of those of El Toboso of La Mancha, a lineage that
though modern, may furnish a source of gentle blood for the most
illustrious families of the ages that are to come, and this let none
dispute with me save on the condition that Zerbino placed at the foot
of the trophy of Orlando’s arms, saying,
These let none move
Who dareth not his might with Roland prove.”
“Although mine is of the Cachopins of Laredo,” said the traveller, “I
will not venture to compare it with that of El Toboso of La Mancha,
though, to tell the truth, no such surname has until now ever reached
my ears.”
“What!” said Don Quixote, “has that never reached them?”
The rest of the party went along listening with great attention to the
conversation of the pair, and even the very goatherds and shepherds
perceived how exceedingly out of his wits our Don Quixote was. Sancho
Panza alone thought that what his master said was the truth, knowing
who he was and having known him from his birth; and all that he felt
any difficulty in believing was that about the fair Dulcinea del
Toboso, because neither any such name nor any such princess had ever
come to his knowledge though he lived so close to El Toboso. They were
going along conversing in this way, when they saw descending a gap
between two high mountains some twenty shepherds, all clad in
sheepskins of black wool, and crowned with garlands which, as
afterwards appeared, were, some of them of yew, some of cypress. Six of
the number were carrying a bier covered with a great variety of flowers
and branches, on seeing which one of the goatherds said, “Those who
come there are the bearers of Chrysostom’s body, and the foot of that
mountain is the place where he ordered them to bury him.” They
therefore made haste to reach the spot, and did so by the time those
who came had laid the bier upon the ground, and four of them with sharp
pickaxes were digging a grave by the side of a hard rock. They greeted
each other courteously, and then Don Quixote and those who accompanied
him turned to examine the bier, and on it, covered with flowers, they
saw a dead body in the dress of a shepherd, to all appearance of one
thirty years of age, and showing even in death that in life he had been
of comely features and gallant bearing. Around him on the bier itself
were laid some books, and several papers open and folded; and those who
were looking on as well as those who were opening the grave and all the
others who were there preserved a strange silence, until one of those
who had borne the body said to another, “Observe carefully, Ambrosio if
this is the place Chrysostom spoke of, since you are anxious that what
he directed in his will should be so strictly complied with.”
“This is the place,” answered Ambrosio “for in it many a time did my
poor friend tell me the story of his hard fortune. Here it was, he told
me, that he saw for the first time that mortal enemy of the human race,
and here, too, for the first time he declared to her his passion, as
honourable as it was devoted, and here it was that at last Marcela
ended by scorning and rejecting him so as to bring the tragedy of his
wretched life to a close; here, in memory of misfortunes so great, he
desired to be laid in the bowels of eternal oblivion.” Then turning to
Don Quixote and the travellers he went on to say, “That body, sirs, on
which you are looking with compassionate eyes, was the abode of a soul
on which Heaven bestowed a vast share of its riches. That is the body
of Chrysostom, who was unrivalled in wit, unequalled in courtesy,
unapproached in gentle bearing, a phœnix in friendship, generous
without limit, grave without arrogance, gay without vulgarity, and, in
short, first in all that constitutes goodness and second to none in all
that makes up misfortune. He loved deeply, he was hated; he adored, he
was scorned; he wooed a wild beast, he pleaded with marble, he pursued
the wind, he cried to the wilderness, he served ingratitude, and for
reward was made the prey of death in the mid-course of life, cut short
by a shepherdess whom he sought to immortalise in the memory of man, as
these papers which you see could fully prove, had he not commanded me
to consign them to the fire after having consigned his body to the
earth.”
“You would deal with them more harshly and cruelly than their owner
himself,” said Vivaldo, “for it is neither right nor proper to do the
will of one who enjoins what is wholly unreasonable; it would not have
been reasonable in Augustus Cæsar had he permitted the directions left
by the divine Mantuan in his will to be carried into effect. So that,
Señor Ambrosio while you consign your friend’s body to the earth, you
should not consign his writings to oblivion, for if he gave the order
in bitterness of heart, it is not right that you should irrationally
obey it. On the contrary, by granting life to those papers, let the
cruelty of Marcela live for ever, to serve as a warning in ages to come
to all men to shun and avoid falling into like danger; or I and all of
us who have come here know already the story of this your love-stricken
and heart-broken friend, and we know, too, your friendship, and the
cause of his death, and the directions he gave at the close of his
life; from which sad story may be gathered how great was the cruelty of
Marcela, the love of Chrysostom, and the loyalty of your friendship,
together with the end awaiting those who pursue rashly the path that
insane passion opens to their eyes. Last night we learned the death of
Chrysostom and that he was to be buried here, and out of curiosity and
pity we left our direct road and resolved to come and see with our eyes
that which when heard of had so moved our compassion, and in
consideration of that compassion and our desire to prove it if we might
by condolence, we beg of you, excellent Ambrosio, or at least I on my
own account entreat you, that instead of burning those papers you allow
me to carry away some of them.”
And without waiting for the shepherd’s answer, he stretched out his
hand and took up some of those that were nearest to him; seeing which
Ambrosio said, “Out of courtesy, señor, I will grant your request as to
those you have taken, but it is idle to expect me to abstain from
burning the remainder.”
Vivaldo, who was eager to see what the papers contained, opened one of
them at once, and saw that its title was “Lay of Despair.”
Ambrosio hearing it said, “That is the last paper the unhappy man
wrote; and that you may see, señor, to what an end his misfortunes
brought him, read it so that you may be heard, for you will have time
enough for that while we are waiting for the grave to be dug.”
“I will do so very willingly,” said Vivaldo; and as all the bystanders
were equally eager they gathered round him, and he, reading in a loud
voice, found that it ran as follows.
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CHAPTER XIV.
WHEREIN ARE INSERTED THE DESPAIRING VERSES OF THE DEAD SHEPHERD,
TOGETHER WITH OTHER INCIDENTS NOT LOOKED FOR
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THE LAY OF CHRYSOSTOM
Since thou dost in thy cruelty desire
The ruthless rigour of thy tyranny
From tongue to tongue, from land to land proclaimed,
The very Hell will I constrain to lend
This stricken breast of mine deep notes of woe
To serve my need of fitting utterance.
And as I strive to body forth the tale
Of all I suffer, all that thou hast done,
Forth shall the dread voice roll, and bear along
Shreds from my vitals torn for greater pain.
Then listen, not to dulcet harmony,
But to a discord wrung by mad despair
Out of this bosom’s depths of bitterness,
To ease my heart and plant a sting in thine.
The lion’s roar, the fierce wolf’s savage howl,
The horrid hissing of the scaly snake,
The awesome cries of monsters yet unnamed,
The crow’s ill-boding croak, the hollow moan
Of wild winds wrestling with the restless sea,
The wrathful bellow of the vanquished bull,
The plaintive sobbing of the widowed dove,
The envied owl’s sad note, the wail of woe
That rises from the dreary choir of Hell,
Commingled in one sound, confusing sense,
Let all these come to aid my soul’s complaint,
For pain like mine demands new modes of song.
No echoes of that discord shall be heard
Where Father Tagus rolls, or on the banks
Of olive-bordered Betis; to the rocks
Or in deep caverns shall my plaint be told,
And by a lifeless tongue in living words;
Or in dark valleys or on lonely shores,
Where neither foot of man nor sunbeam falls;
Or in among the poison-breathing swarms
Of monsters nourished by the sluggish Nile.
For, though it be to solitudes remote
The hoarse vague echoes of my sorrows sound
Thy matchless cruelty, my dismal fate
Shall carry them to all the spacious world.
Disdain hath power to kill, and patience dies
Slain by suspicion, be it false or true;
And deadly is the force of jealousy;
Long absence makes of life a dreary void;
No hope of happiness can give repose
To him that ever fears to be forgot;
And death, inevitable, waits in hall.
But I, by some strange miracle, live on
A prey to absence, jealousy, disdain;
Racked by suspicion as by certainty;
Forgotten, left to feed my flame alone.
And while I suffer thus, there comes no ray
Of hope to gladden me athwart the gloom;
Nor do I look for it in my despair;
But rather clinging to a cureless woe,
All hope do I abjure for evermore.
Can there be hope where fear is? Were it well,
When far more certain are the grounds of fear?
Ought I to shut mine eyes to jealousy,
If through a thousand heart-wounds it appears?
Who would not give free access to distrust,
Seeing disdain unveiled, and—bitter change!—
All his suspicions turned to certainties,
And the fair truth transformed into a lie?
Oh, thou fierce tyrant of the realms of love,
Oh, Jealousy! put chains upon these hands,
And bind me with thy strongest cord, Disdain.
But, woe is me! triumphant over all,
My sufferings drown the memory of you.
And now I die, and since there is no hope
Of happiness for me in life or death,
Still to my fantasy I’ll fondly cling.
I’ll say that he is wise who loveth well,
And that the soul most free is that most bound
In thraldom to the ancient tyrant Love.
I’ll say that she who is mine enemy
In that fair body hath as fair a mind,
And that her coldness is but my desert,
And that by virtue of the pain he sends
Love rules his kingdom with a gentle sway.
Thus, self-deluding, and in bondage sore,
And wearing out the wretched shred of life
To which I am reduced by her disdain,
I’ll give this soul and body to the winds,
All hopeless of a crown of bliss in store.
Thou whose injustice hath supplied the cause
That makes me quit the weary life I loathe,
As by this wounded bosom thou canst see
How willingly thy victim I become,
Let not my death, if haply worth a tear,
Cloud the clear heaven that dwells in thy bright eyes;
I would not have thee expiate in aught
The crime of having made my heart thy prey;
But rather let thy laughter gaily ring
And prove my death to be thy festival.
Fool that I am to bid thee! well I know
Thy glory gains by my untimely end.
And now it is the time; from Hell’s abyss
Come thirsting Tantalus, come Sisyphus
Heaving the cruel stone, come Tityus
With vulture, and with wheel Ixion come,
And come the sisters of the ceaseless toil;
And all into this breast transfer their pains,
And (if such tribute to despair be due)
Chant in their deepest tones a doleful dirge
Over a corse unworthy of a shroud.
Let the three-headed guardian of the gate,
And all the monstrous progeny of hell,
The doleful concert join: a lover dead
Methinks can have no fitter obsequies.
Lay of despair, grieve not when thou art gone
Forth from this sorrowing heart: my misery
Brings fortune to the cause that gave thee birth;
Then banish sadness even in the tomb.
The “Lay of Chrysostom” met with the approbation of the listeners,
though the reader said it did not seem to him to agree with what he had
heard of Marcela’s reserve and propriety, for Chrysostom complained in
it of jealousy, suspicion, and absence, all to the prejudice of the
good name and fame of Marcela; to which Ambrosio replied as one who
knew well his friend’s most secret thoughts, “Señor, to remove that
doubt I should tell you that when the unhappy man wrote this lay he was
away from Marcela, from whom he had voluntarily separated himself, to
try if absence would act with him as it is wont; and as everything
distresses and every fear haunts the banished lover, so imaginary
jealousies and suspicions, dreaded as if they were true, tormented
Chrysostom; and thus the truth of what report declares of the virtue of
Marcela remains unshaken, and with her envy itself should not and
cannot find any fault save that of being cruel, somewhat haughty, and
very scornful.”
“That is true,” said Vivaldo; and as he was about to read another paper
of those he had preserved from the fire, he was stopped by a marvellous
vision (for such it seemed) that unexpectedly presented itself to their
eyes; for on the summit of the rock where they were digging the grave
there appeared the shepherdess Marcela, so beautiful that her beauty
exceeded its reputation. Those who had never till then beheld her gazed
upon her in wonder and silence, and those who were accustomed to see
her were not less amazed than those who had never seen her before. But
the instant Ambrosio saw her he addressed her, with manifest
indignation:
“Art thou come, by chance, cruel basilisk of these mountains, to see if
in thy presence blood will flow from the wounds of this wretched being
thy cruelty has robbed of life; or is it to exult over the cruel work
of thy humours that thou art come; or like another pitiless Nero to
look down from that height upon the ruin of his Rome in embers; or in
thy arrogance to trample on this ill-fated corpse, as the ungrateful
daughter trampled on her father Tarquin’s? Tell us quickly for what
thou art come, or what it is thou wouldst have, for, as I know the
thoughts of Chrysostom never failed to obey thee in life, I will make
all these who call themselves his friends obey thee, though he be
dead.”
“I come not, Ambrosio for any of the purposes thou hast named,” replied
Marcela, “but to defend myself and to prove how unreasonable are all
those who blame me for their sorrow and for Chrysostom’s death; and
therefore I ask all of you that are here to give me your attention, for
it will not take much time or many words to bring the truth home to
persons of sense. Heaven has made me, so you say, beautiful, and so
much so that in spite of yourselves my beauty leads you to love me; and
for the love you show me you say, and even urge, that I am bound to
love you. By that natural understanding which God has given me I know
that everything beautiful attracts love, but I cannot see how, by
reason of being loved, that which is loved for its beauty is bound to
love that which loves it; besides, it may happen that the lover of that
which is beautiful may be ugly, and ugliness being detestable, it is
very absurd to say, “I love thee because thou art beautiful, thou must
love me though I be ugly.” But supposing the beauty equal on both
sides, it does not follow that the inclinations must be therefore
alike, for it is not every beauty that excites love, some but pleasing
the eye without winning the affection; and if every sort of beauty
excited love and won the heart, the will would wander vaguely to and
fro unable to make choice of any; for as there is an infinity of
beautiful objects there must be an infinity of inclinations, and true
love, I have heard it said, is indivisible, and must be voluntary and
not compelled. If this be so, as I believe it to be, why do you desire
me to bend my will by force, for no other reason but that you say you
love me? Nay—tell me—had Heaven made me ugly, as it has made me
beautiful, could I with justice complain of you for not loving me?
Moreover, you must remember that the beauty I possess was no choice of
mine, for, be it what it may, Heaven of its bounty gave it me without
my asking or choosing it; and as the viper, though it kills with it,
does not deserve to be blamed for the poison it carries, as it is a
gift of nature, neither do I deserve reproach for being beautiful; for
beauty in a modest woman is like fire at a distance or a sharp sword;
the one does not burn, the other does not cut, those who do not come
too near. Honour and virtue are the ornaments of the mind, without
which the body, though it be so, has no right to pass for beautiful;
but if modesty is one of the virtues that specially lend a grace and
charm to mind and body, why should she who is loved for her beauty part
with it to gratify one who for his pleasure alone strives with all his
might and energy to rob her of it? I was born free, and that I might
live in freedom I chose the solitude of the fields; in the trees of the
mountains I find society, the clear waters of the brooks are my
mirrors, and to the trees and waters I make known my thoughts and
charms. I am a fire afar off, a sword laid aside. Those whom I have
inspired with love by letting them see me, I have by words undeceived,
and if their longings live on hope—and I have given none to Chrysostom
or to any other—it cannot justly be said that the death of any is my
doing, for it was rather his own obstinacy than my cruelty that killed
him; and if it be made a charge against me that his wishes were
honourable, and that therefore I was bound to yield to them, I answer
that when on this very spot where now his grave is made he declared to
me his purity of purpose, I told him that mine was to live in perpetual
solitude, and that the earth alone should enjoy the fruits of my
retirement and the spoils of my beauty; and if, after this open avowal,
he chose to persist against hope and steer against the wind, what
wonder is it that he should sink in the depths of his infatuation? If I
had encouraged him, I should be false; if I had gratified him, I should
have acted against my own better resolution and purpose. He was
persistent in spite of warning, he despaired without being hated.
Bethink you now if it be reasonable that his suffering should be laid
to my charge. Let him who has been deceived complain, let him give way
to despair whose encouraged hopes have proved vain, let him flatter
himself whom I shall entice, let him boast whom I shall receive; but
let not him call me cruel or homicide to whom I make no promise, upon
whom I practise no deception, whom I neither entice nor receive. It has
not been so far the will of Heaven that I should love by fate, and to
expect me to love by choice is idle. Let this general declaration serve
for each of my suitors on his own account, and let it be understood
from this time forth that if anyone dies for me it is not of jealousy
or misery he dies, for she who loves no one can give no cause for
jealousy to any, and candour is not to be confounded with scorn. Let
him who calls me wild beast and basilisk, leave me alone as something
noxious and evil; let him who calls me ungrateful, withhold his
service; who calls me wayward, seek not my acquaintance; who calls me
cruel, pursue me not; for this wild beast, this basilisk, this
ungrateful, cruel, wayward being has no kind of desire to seek, serve,
know, or follow them. If Chrysostom’s impatience and violent passion
killed him, why should my modest behaviour and circumspection be
blamed? If I preserve my purity in the society of the trees, why should
he who would have me preserve it among men, seek to rob me of it? I
have, as you know, wealth of my own, and I covet not that of others; my
taste is for freedom, and I have no relish for constraint; I neither
love nor hate anyone; I do not deceive this one or court that, or
trifle with one or play with another. The modest converse of the
shepherd girls of these hamlets and the care of my goats are my
recreations; my desires are bounded by these mountains, and if they
ever wander hence it is to contemplate the beauty of the heavens, steps
by which the soul travels to its primeval abode.”
With these words, and not waiting to hear a reply, she turned and
passed into the thickest part of a wood that was hard by, leaving all
who were there lost in admiration as much of her good sense as of her
beauty. Some—those wounded by the irresistible shafts launched by her
bright eyes—made as though they would follow her, heedless of the frank
declaration they had heard; seeing which, and deeming this a fitting
occasion for the exercise of his chivalry in aid of distressed damsels,
Don Quixote, laying his hand on the hilt of his sword, exclaimed in a
loud and distinct voice:
“Let no one, whatever his rank or condition, dare to follow the
beautiful Marcela, under pain of incurring my fierce indignation. She
has shown by clear and satisfactory arguments that little or no fault
is to be found with her for the death of Chrysostom, and also how far
she is from yielding to the wishes of any of her lovers, for which
reason, instead of being followed and persecuted, she should in justice
be honoured and esteemed by all the good people of the world, for she
shows that she is the only woman in it that holds to such a virtuous
resolution.”
Whether it was because of the threats of Don Quixote, or because
Ambrosio told them to fulfil their duty to their good friend, none of
the shepherds moved or stirred from the spot until, having finished the
grave and burned Chrysostom’s papers, they laid his body in it, not
without many tears from those who stood by. They closed the grave with
a heavy stone until a slab was ready which Ambrosio said he meant to
have prepared, with an epitaph which was to be to this effect:
Beneath the stone before your eyes
The body of a lover lies;
In life he was a shepherd swain,
In death a victim to disdain.
Ungrateful, cruel, coy, and fair,
Was she that drove him to despair,
And Love hath made her his ally
For spreading wide his tyranny.
They then strewed upon the grave a profusion of flowers and branches,
and all expressing their condolence with his friend Ambrosio, took
their leave. Vivaldo and his companion did the same; and Don Quixote
bade farewell to his hosts and to the travellers, who pressed him to
come with them to Seville, as being such a convenient place for finding
adventures, for they presented themselves in every street and round
every corner oftener than anywhere else. Don Quixote thanked them for
their advice and for the disposition they showed to do him a favour,
and said that for the present he would not, and must not go to Seville
until he had cleared all these mountains of highwaymen and robbers, of
whom report said they were full. Seeing his good intention, the
travellers were unwilling to press him further, and once more bidding
him farewell, they left him and pursued their journey, in the course of
which they did not fail to discuss the story of Marcela and Chrysostom
as well as the madness of Don Quixote. He, on his part, resolved to go
in quest of the shepherdess Marcela, and make offer to her of all the
service he could render her; but things did not fall out with him as he
expected, according to what is related in the course of this veracious
history, of which the Second Part ends here.
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CHAPTER XV.
IN WHICH IS RELATED THE UNFORTUNATE ADVENTURE THAT DON QUIXOTE FELL IN
WITH WHEN HE FELL OUT WITH CERTAIN HEARTLESS YANGUESANS
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The sage Cid Hamete Benengeli relates that as soon as Don Quixote took
leave of his hosts and all who had been present at the burial of
Chrysostom, he and his squire passed into the same wood which they had
seen the shepherdess Marcela enter, and after having wandered for more
than two hours in all directions in search of her without finding her,
they came to a halt in a glade covered with tender grass, beside which
ran a pleasant cool stream that invited and compelled them to pass
there the hours of the noontide heat, which by this time was beginning
to come on oppressively. Don Quixote and Sancho dismounted, and turning
Rocinante and the ass loose to feed on the grass that was there in
abundance, they ransacked the alforjas, and without any ceremony very
peacefully and sociably master and man made their repast on what they
found in them.
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Sancho had not thought it worth while to hobble Rocinante, feeling
sure, from what he knew of his staidness and freedom from incontinence,
that all the mares in the Cordova pastures would not lead him into an
impropriety. Chance, however, and the devil, who is not always asleep,
so ordained it that feeding in this valley there was a drove of
Galician ponies belonging to certain Yanguesan carriers, whose way it
is to take their midday rest with their teams in places and spots where
grass and water abound; and that where Don Quixote chanced to be suited
the Yanguesans’ purpose very well. It so happened, then, that Rocinante
took a fancy to disport himself with their ladyships the ponies, and
abandoning his usual gait and demeanour as he scented them, he, without
asking leave of his master, got up a briskish little trot and hastened
to make known his wishes to them; they, however, it seemed, preferred
their pasture to him, and received him with their heels and teeth to
such effect that they soon broke his girths and left him naked without
a saddle to cover him; but what must have been worse to him was that
the carriers, seeing the violence he was offering to their mares, came
running up armed with stakes, and so belaboured him that they brought
him sorely battered to the ground.
By this time Don Quixote and Sancho, who had witnessed the drubbing of
Rocinante, came up panting, and said Don Quixote to Sancho:
“So far as I can see, friend Sancho, these are not knights but base
folk of low birth: I mention it because thou canst lawfully aid me in
taking due vengeance for the insult offered to Rocinante before our
eyes.”
“What the devil vengeance can we take,” answered Sancho, “if they are
more than twenty, and we no more than two, or, indeed, perhaps not more
than one and a half?”
“I count for a hundred,” replied Don Quixote, and without more words he
drew his sword and attacked the Yanguesans and excited and impelled by
the example of his master, Sancho did the same; and to begin with, Don
Quixote delivered a slash at one of them that laid open the leather
jerkin he wore, together with a great portion of his shoulder. The
Yanguesans, seeing themselves assaulted by only two men while they were
so many, betook themselves to their stakes, and driving the two into
the middle they began to lay on with great zeal and energy; in fact, at
the second blow they brought Sancho to the ground, and Don Quixote
fared the same way, all his skill and high mettle availing him nothing,
and fate willed it that he should fall at the feet of Rocinante, who
had not yet risen; whereby it may be seen how furiously stakes can
pound in angry boorish hands.
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Then, seeing the mischief they had done, the Yanguesans with all the
haste they could loaded their team and pursued their journey, leaving
the two adventurers a sorry sight and in sorrier mood.
Sancho was the first to come to, and finding himself close to his
master he called to him in a weak and doleful voice, “Señor Don
Quixote, ah, Señor Don Quixote!”
“What wouldst thou, brother Sancho?” answered Don Quixote in the same
feeble suffering tone as Sancho.
“I would like, if it were possible,” answered Sancho Panza, “your
worship to give me a couple of sups of that potion of the fiery Blas,
if it be that you have any to hand there; perhaps it will serve for
broken bones as well as for wounds.”
“If I only had it here, wretch that I am, what more should we want?”
said Don Quixote; “but I swear to thee, Sancho Panza, on the faith of a
knight-errant, ere two days are over, unless fortune orders otherwise,
I mean to have it in my possession, or my hand will have lost its
cunning.”
“But in how many does your worship think we shall have the use of our
feet?” answered Sancho Panza.
“For myself I must say I cannot guess how many,” said the battered
knight Don Quixote; “but I take all the blame upon myself, for I had no
business to put hand to sword against men who where not dubbed knights
like myself, and so I believe that in punishment for having
transgressed the laws of chivalry the God of battles has permitted this
chastisement to be administered to me; for which reason, brother
Sancho, it is well thou shouldst receive a hint on the matter which I
am now about to mention to thee, for it is of much importance to the
welfare of both of us. It is that when thou shalt see rabble of this
sort offering us insult thou art not to wait till I draw sword against
them, for I shall not do so at all; but do thou draw sword and chastise
them to thy heart’s content, and if any knights come to their aid and
defence I will take care to defend thee and assail them with all my
might; and thou hast already seen by a thousand signs and proofs what
the might of this strong arm of mine is equal to”—so uplifted had the
poor gentleman become through the victory over the stout Biscayan.
But Sancho did not so fully approve of his master’s admonition as to
let it pass without saying in reply, “Señor, I am a man of peace, meek
and quiet, and I can put up with any affront because I have a wife and
children to support and bring up; so let it be likewise a hint to your
worship, as it cannot be a mandate, that on no account will I draw
sword either against clown or against knight, and that here before God
I forgive the insults that have been offered me, whether they have
been, are, or shall be offered me by high or low, rich or poor, noble
or commoner, not excepting any rank or condition whatsoever.”
To all which his master said in reply, “I wish I had breath enough to
speak somewhat easily, and that the pain I feel on this side would
abate so as to let me explain to thee, Panza, the mistake thou makest.
Come now, sinner, suppose the wind of fortune, hitherto so adverse,
should turn in our favour, filling the sails of our desires so that
safely and without impediment we put into port in some one of those
islands I have promised thee, how would it be with thee if on winning
it I made thee lord of it? Why, thou wilt make it well-nigh impossible
through not being a knight nor having any desire to be one, nor
possessing the courage nor the will to avenge insults or defend thy
lordship; for thou must know that in newly conquered kingdoms and
provinces the minds of the inhabitants are never so quiet nor so well
disposed to the new lord that there is no fear of their making some
move to change matters once more, and try, as they say, what chance may
do for them; so it is essential that the new possessor should have good
sense to enable him to govern, and valour to attack and defend himself,
whatever may befall him.”
“In what has now befallen us,” answered Sancho, “I’d have been well
pleased to have that good sense and that valour your worship speaks of,
but I swear on the faith of a poor man I am more fit for plasters than
for arguments. See if your worship can get up, and let us help
Rocinante, though he does not deserve it, for he was the main cause of
all this thrashing. I never thought it of Rocinante, for I took him to
be a virtuous person and as quiet as myself. After all, they say right
that it takes a long time to come to know people, and that there is
nothing sure in this life. Who would have said that, after such mighty
slashes as your worship gave that unlucky knight-errant, there was
coming, travelling post and at the very heels of them, such a great
storm of sticks as has fallen upon our shoulders?”
“And yet thine, Sancho,” replied Don Quixote, “ought to be used to such
squalls; but mine, reared in soft cloth and fine linen, it is plain
they must feel more keenly the pain of this mishap, and if it were not
that I imagine—why do I say imagine?—know of a certainty that all these
annoyances are very necessary accompaniments of the calling of arms, I
would lay me down here to die of pure vexation.”
To this the squire replied, “Señor, as these mishaps are what one reaps
of chivalry, tell me if they happen very often, or if they have their
own fixed times for coming to pass; because it seems to me that after
two harvests we shall be no good for the third, unless God in his
infinite mercy helps us.”
“Know, friend Sancho,” answered Don Quixote, “that the life of
knights-errant is subject to a thousand dangers and reverses, and
neither more nor less is it within immediate possibility for
knights-errant to become kings and emperors, as experience has shown in
the case of many different knights with whose histories I am thoroughly
acquainted; and I could tell thee now, if the pain would let me, of
some who simply by might of arm have risen to the high stations I have
mentioned; and those same, both before and after, experienced divers
misfortunes and miseries; for the valiant Amadis of Gaul found himself
in the power of his mortal enemy Arcalaus the magician, who, it is
positively asserted, holding him captive, gave him more than two
hundred lashes with the reins of his horse while tied to one of the
pillars of a court; and moreover there is a certain recondite author of
no small authority who says that the Knight of Phœbus, being caught in
a certain pitfall, which opened under his feet in a certain castle, on
falling found himself bound hand and foot in a deep pit underground,
where they administered to him one of those things they call clysters,
of sand and snow-water, that well-nigh finished him; and if he had not
been succoured in that sore extremity by a sage, a great friend of his,
it would have gone very hard with the poor knight; so I may well suffer
in company with such worthy folk, for greater were the indignities
which they had to suffer than those which we suffer. For I would have
thee know, Sancho, that wounds caused by any instruments which happen
by chance to be in hand inflict no indignity, and this is laid down in
the law of the duel in express words: if, for instance, the cobbler
strikes another with the last which he has in his hand, though it be in
fact a piece of wood, it cannot be said for that reason that he whom he
struck with it has been cudgelled. I say this lest thou shouldst
imagine that because we have been drubbed in this affray we have
therefore suffered any indignity; for the arms those men carried, with
which they pounded us, were nothing more than their stakes, and not one
of them, so far as I remember, carried rapier, sword, or dagger.”
“They gave me no time to see that much,” answered Sancho, “for hardly
had I laid hand on my tizona when they signed the cross on my shoulders
with their sticks in such style that they took the sight out of my eyes
and the strength out of my feet, stretching me where I now lie, and
where thinking of whether all those stake-strokes were an indignity or
not gives me no uneasiness, which the pain of the blows does, for they
will remain as deeply impressed on my memory as on my shoulders.”
“For all that let me tell thee, brother Panza,” said Don Quixote, “that
there is no recollection which time does not put an end to, and no pain
which death does not remove.”
“And what greater misfortune can there be,” replied Panza, “than the
one that waits for time to put an end to it and death to remove it? If
our mishap were one of those that are cured with a couple of plasters,
it would not be so bad; but I am beginning to think that all the
plasters in a hospital almost won’t be enough to put us right.”
“No more of that: pluck strength out of weakness, Sancho, as I mean to
do,” returned Don Quixote, “and let us see how Rocinante is, for it
seems to me that not the least share of this mishap has fallen to the
lot of the poor beast.”
“There is nothing wonderful in that,” replied Sancho, “since he is a
knight-errant too; what I wonder at is that my beast should have come
off scot-free where we come out scotched.”
“Fortune always leaves a door open in adversity in order to bring
relief to it,” said Don Quixote; “I say so because this little beast
may now supply the want of Rocinante, carrying me hence to some castle
where I may be cured of my wounds. And moreover I shall not hold it any
dishonour to be so mounted, for I remember having read how the good old
Silenus, the tutor and instructor of the gay god of laughter, when he
entered the city of the hundred gates, went very contentedly mounted on
a handsome ass.”
“It may be true that he went mounted as your worship says,” answered
Sancho, “but there is a great difference between going mounted and
going slung like a sack of manure.”
To which Don Quixote replied, “Wounds received in battle confer honour
instead of taking it away; and so, friend Panza, say no more, but, as I
told thee before, get up as well as thou canst and put me on top of thy
beast in whatever fashion pleases thee best, and let us go hence ere
night come on and surprise us in these wilds.”
“And yet I have heard your worship say,” observed Panza, “that it is
very meet for knights-errant to sleep in wastes and deserts, and that
they esteem it very good fortune.”
“That is,” said Don Quixote, “when they cannot help it, or when they
are in love; and so true is this that there have been knights who have
remained two years on rocks, in sunshine and shade and all the
inclemencies of heaven, without their ladies knowing anything of it;
and one of these was Amadis, when, under the name of Beltenebros, he
took up his abode on the Peña Pobre for—I know not if it was eight
years or eight months, for I am not very sure of the reckoning; at any
rate he stayed there doing penance for I know not what pique the
Princess Oriana had against him; but no more of this now, Sancho, and
make haste before a mishap like Rocinante’s befalls the ass.”
“The very devil would be in it in that case,” said Sancho; and letting
off thirty “ohs,” and sixty sighs, and a hundred and twenty
maledictions and execrations on whomsoever it was that had brought him
there, he raised himself, stopping half-way bent like a Turkish bow
without power to bring himself upright, but with all his pains he
saddled his ass, who too had gone astray somewhat, yielding to the
excessive licence of the day; he next raised up Rocinante, and as for
him, had he possessed a tongue to complain with, most assuredly neither
Sancho nor his master would have been behind him.
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To be brief, Sancho fixed Don Quixote on the ass and secured Rocinante
with a leading rein, and taking the ass by the halter, he proceeded
more or less in the direction in which it seemed to him the high road
might be; and, as chance was conducting their affairs for them from
good to better, he had not gone a short league when the road came in
sight, and on it he perceived an inn, which to his annoyance and to the
delight of Don Quixote must needs be a castle. Sancho insisted that it
was an inn, and his master that it was not one, but a castle, and the
dispute lasted so long that before the point was settled they had time
to reach it, and into it Sancho entered with all his team without any
further controversy.
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CHAPTER XVI.
OF WHAT HAPPENED TO THE INGENIOUS GENTLEMAN IN THE INN WHICH HE TOOK TO
BE A CASTLE
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The innkeeper, seeing Don Quixote slung across the ass, asked Sancho
what was amiss with him. Sancho answered that it was nothing, only that
he had fallen down from a rock and had his ribs a little bruised. The
innkeeper had a wife whose disposition was not such as those of her
calling commonly have, for she was by nature kind-hearted and felt for
the sufferings of her neighbours, so she at once set about tending Don
Quixote, and made her young daughter, a very comely girl, help her in
taking care of her guest. There was besides in the inn, as servant, an
Asturian lass with a broad face, flat poll, and snub nose, blind of one
eye and not very sound in the other. The elegance of her shape, to be
sure, made up for all her defects; she did not measure seven palms from
head to foot, and her shoulders, which overweighted her somewhat, made
her contemplate the ground more than she liked. This graceful lass,
then, helped the young girl, and the two made up a very bad bed for Don
Quixote in a garret that showed evident signs of having formerly served
for many years as a straw-loft, in which there was also quartered a
carrier whose bed was placed a little beyond our Don Quixote’s, and,
though only made of the pack-saddles and cloths of his mules, had much
the advantage of it, as Don Quixote’s consisted simply of four rough
boards on two not very even trestles, a mattress, that for thinness
might have passed for a quilt, full of pellets which, were they not
seen through the rents to be wool, would to the touch have seemed
pebbles in hardness, two sheets made of buckler leather, and a coverlet
the threads of which anyone that chose might have counted without
missing one in the reckoning.
On this accursed bed Don Quixote stretched himself, and the hostess and
her daughter soon covered him with plasters from top to toe, while
Maritornes—for that was the name of the Asturian—held the light for
them, and while plastering him, the hostess, observing how full of
wheals Don Quixote was in some places, remarked that this had more the
look of blows than of a fall.
It was not blows, Sancho said, but that the rock had many points and
projections, and that each of them had left its mark. “Pray, señora,”
he added, “manage to save some tow, as there will be no want of someone
to use it, for my loins too are rather sore.”
“Then you must have fallen too,” said the hostess.
“I did not fall,” said Sancho Panza, “but from the shock I got at
seeing my master fall, my body aches so that I feel as if I had had a
thousand thwacks.”
“That may well be,” said the young girl, “for it has many a time
happened to me to dream that I was falling down from a tower and never
coming to the ground, and when I awoke from the dream to find myself as
weak and shaken as if I had really fallen.”
“There is the point, señora,” replied Sancho Panza, “that I without
dreaming at all, but being more awake than I am now, find myself with
scarcely less wheals than my master, Don Quixote.”
“How is the gentleman called?” asked Maritornes the Asturian.
“Don Quixote of La Mancha,” answered Sancho Panza, “and he is a
knight-adventurer, and one of the best and stoutest that have been seen
in the world this long time past.”
“What is a knight-adventurer?” said the lass.
“Are you so new in the world as not to know?” answered Sancho Panza.
“Well, then, you must know, sister, that a knight-adventurer is a thing
that in two words is seen drubbed and emperor, that is to-day the most
miserable and needy being in the world, and to-morrow will have two or
three crowns of kingdoms to give his squire.”
“Then how is it,” said the hostess, “that belonging to so good a master
as this, you have not, to judge by appearances, even so much as a
county?”
“It is too soon yet,” answered Sancho, “for we have only been a month
going in quest of adventures, and so far we have met with nothing that
can be called one, for it will happen that when one thing is looked for
another thing is found; however, if my master Don Quixote gets well of
this wound, or fall, and I am left none the worse of it, I would not
change my hopes for the best title in Spain.”
To all this conversation Don Quixote was listening very attentively,
and sitting up in bed as well as he could, and taking the hostess by
the hand he said to her, “Believe me, fair lady, you may call yourself
fortunate in having in this castle of yours sheltered my person, which
is such that if I do not myself praise it, it is because of what is
commonly said, that self-praise debaseth; but my squire will inform you
who I am. I only tell you that I shall preserve for ever inscribed on
my memory the service you have rendered me in order to tender you my
gratitude while life shall last me; and would to Heaven love held me
not so enthralled and subject to its laws and to the eyes of that fair
ingrate whom I name between my teeth, but that those of this lovely
damsel might be the masters of my liberty.”
The hostess, her daughter, and the worthy Maritornes listened in
bewilderment to the words of the knight-errant; for they understood
about as much of them as if he had been talking Greek, though they
could perceive they were all meant for expressions of good-will and
blandishments; and not being accustomed to this kind of language, they
stared at him and wondered to themselves, for he seemed to them a man
of a different sort from those they were used to, and thanking him in
pothouse phrase for his civility they left him, while the Asturian gave
her attention to Sancho, who needed it no less than his master.
The carrier had made an arrangement with her for recreation that night,
and she had given him her word that when the guests were quiet and the
family asleep she would come in search of him and meet his wishes
unreservedly. And it is said of this good lass that she never made
promises of the kind without fulfilling them, even though she made them
in a forest and without any witness present, for she plumed herself
greatly on being a lady and held it no disgrace to be in such an
employment as servant in an inn, because, she said, misfortunes and
ill-luck had brought her to that position. The hard, narrow, wretched,
rickety bed of Don Quixote stood first in the middle of this star-lit
stable, and close beside it Sancho made his, which merely consisted of
a rush mat and a blanket that looked as if it was of threadbare canvas
rather than of wool. Next to these two beds was that of the carrier,
made up, as has been said, of the pack-saddles and all the trappings of
the two best mules he had, though there were twelve of them, sleek,
plump, and in prime condition, for he was one of the rich carriers of
Arévalo, according to the author of this history, who particularly
mentions this carrier because he knew him very well, and they even say
was in some degree a relation of his; besides which Cid Hamete
Benengeli was a historian of great research and accuracy in all things,
as is very evident since he would not pass over in silence those that
have been already mentioned, however trifling and insignificant they
might be, an example that might be followed by those grave historians
who relate transactions so curtly and briefly that we hardly get a
taste of them, all the substance of the work being left in the inkstand
from carelessness, perverseness, or ignorance. A thousand blessings on
the author of “Tablante de Ricamonte” and that of the other book in
which the deeds of the Conde Tomillas are recounted; with what
minuteness they describe everything!
To proceed, then: after having paid a visit to his team and given them
their second feed, the carrier stretched himself on his pack-saddles
and lay waiting for his conscientious Maritornes. Sancho was by this
time plastered and had lain down, and though he strove to sleep the
pain of his ribs would not let him, while Don Quixote with the pain of
his had his eyes as wide open as a hare’s.
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The inn was all in silence, and in the whole of it there was no light
except that given by a lantern that hung burning in the middle of the
gateway. This strange stillness, and the thoughts, always present to
our knight’s mind, of the incidents described at every turn in the
books that were the cause of his misfortune, conjured up to his
imagination as extraordinary a delusion as can well be conceived, which
was that he fancied himself to have reached a famous castle (for, as
has been said, all the inns he lodged in were castles to his eyes), and
that the daughter of the innkeeper was daughter of the lord of the
castle, and that she, won by his high-bred bearing, had fallen in love
with him, and had promised to come to his bed for a while that night
without the knowledge of her parents; and holding all this fantasy that
he had constructed as solid fact, he began to feel uneasy and to
consider the perilous risk which his virtue was about to encounter, and
he resolved in his heart to commit no treason to his lady Dulcinea del
Toboso, even though the queen Guinevere herself and the dame Quintañona
should present themselves before him.
While he was taken up with these vagaries, then, the time and the
hour—an unlucky one for him—arrived for the Asturian to come, who in
her smock, with bare feet and her hair gathered into a fustian coif,
with noiseless and cautious steps entered the chamber where the three
were quartered, in quest of the carrier; but scarcely had she gained
the door when Don Quixote perceived her, and sitting up in his bed in
spite of his plasters and the pain of his ribs, he stretched out his
arms to receive his beauteous damsel. The Asturian, who went all
doubled up and in silence with her hands before her feeling for her
lover, encountered the arms of Don Quixote, who grasped her tightly by
the wrist, and drawing her towards him, while she dared not utter a
word, made her sit down on the bed. He then felt her smock, and
although it was of sackcloth it appeared to him to be of the finest and
softest silk: on her wrists she wore some glass beads, but to him they
had the sheen of precious Orient pearls: her hair, which in some
measure resembled a horse’s mane, he rated as threads of the brightest
gold of Araby, whose refulgence dimmed the sun himself: her breath,
which no doubt smelt of yesterday’s stale salad, seemed to him to
diffuse a sweet aromatic fragrance from her mouth; and, in short, he
drew her portrait in his imagination with the same features and in the
same style as that which he had seen in his books of the other
princesses who, smitten by love, came with all the adornments that are
here set down, to see the sorely wounded knight; and so great was the
poor gentleman’s blindness that neither touch, nor smell, nor anything
else about the good lass that would have made any but a carrier vomit,
were enough to undeceive him; on the contrary, he was persuaded he had
the goddess of beauty in his arms, and holding her firmly in his grasp
he went on to say in low, tender voice:
“Would that I found myself, lovely and exalted lady, in a position to
repay such a favour as that which you, by the sight of your great
beauty, have granted me; but fortune, which is never weary of
persecuting the good, has chosen to place me upon this bed, where I lie
so bruised and broken that though my inclination would gladly comply
with yours it is impossible; besides, to this impossibility another yet
greater is to be added, which is the faith that I have pledged to the
peerless Dulcinea del Toboso, sole lady of my most secret thoughts; and
were it not that this stood in the way I should not be so insensible a
knight as to miss the happy opportunity which your great goodness has
offered me.”
Maritornes was fretting and sweating at finding herself held so fast by
Don Quixote, and not understanding or heeding the words he addressed to
her, she strove without speaking to free herself. The worthy carrier,
whose unholy thoughts kept him awake, was aware of his doxy the moment
she entered the door, and was listening attentively to all Don Quixote
said; and jealous that the Asturian should have broken her word with
him for another, drew nearer to Don Quixote’s bed and stood still to
see what would come of this talk which he could not understand; but
when he perceived the wench struggling to get free and Don Quixote
striving to hold her, not relishing the joke he raised his arm and
delivered such a terrible cuff on the lank jaws of the amorous knight
that he bathed all his mouth in blood, and not content with this he
mounted on his ribs and with his feet tramped all over them at a pace
rather smarter than a trot. The bed which was somewhat crazy and not
very firm on its feet, unable to support the additional weight of the
carrier, came to the ground, and at the mighty crash of this the
innkeeper awoke and at once concluded that it must be some brawl of
Maritornes’, because after calling loudly to her he got no answer. With
this suspicion he got up, and lighting a lamp hastened to the quarter
where he had heard the disturbance. The wench, seeing that her master
was coming and knowing that his temper was terrible, frightened and
panic-stricken made for the bed of Sancho Panza, who still slept, and
crouching upon it made a ball of herself.
The innkeeper came in exclaiming, “Where art thou, strumpet? Of course
this is some of thy work.” At this Sancho awoke, and feeling this mass
almost on top of him fancied he had the nightmare and began to
distribute fisticuffs all round, of which a certain share fell upon
Maritornes, who, irritated by the pain and flinging modesty aside, paid
back so many in return to Sancho that she woke him up in spite of
himself. He then, finding himself so handled, by whom he knew not,
raising himself up as well as he could, grappled with Maritornes, and
he and she between them began the bitterest and drollest scrimmage in
the world. The carrier, however, perceiving by the light of the
innkeeper candle how it fared with his ladylove, quitting Don Quixote,
ran to bring her the help she needed; and the innkeeper did the same
but with a different intention, for his was to chastise the lass, as he
believed that beyond a doubt she alone was the cause of all the
harmony. And so, as the saying is, cat to rat, rat to rope, rope to
stick, the carrier pounded Sancho, Sancho the lass, she him, and the
innkeeper her, and all worked away so briskly that they did not give
themselves a moment’s rest; and the best of it was that the innkeeper’s
lamp went out, and as they were left in the dark they all laid on one
upon the other in a mass so unmercifully that there was not a sound
spot left where a hand could light.
It so happened that there was lodging that night in the inn a
caudrillero of what they call the Old Holy Brotherhood of Toledo, who,
also hearing the extraordinary noise of the conflict, seized his staff
and the tin case with his warrants, and made his way in the dark into
the room crying: “Hold! in the name of the Jurisdiction! Hold! in the
name of the Holy Brotherhood!”
The first that he came upon was the pummelled Don Quixote, who lay
stretched senseless on his back upon his broken-down bed, and, his hand
falling on the beard as he felt about, he continued to cry, “Help for
the Jurisdiction!” but perceiving that he whom he had laid hold of did
not move or stir, he concluded that he was dead and that those in the
room were his murderers, and with this suspicion he raised his voice
still higher, calling out, “Shut the inn gate; see that no one goes
out; they have killed a man here!” This cry startled them all, and each
dropped the contest at the point at which the voice reached him. The
innkeeper retreated to his room, the carrier to his pack-saddles, the
lass to her crib; the unlucky Don Quixote and Sancho alone were unable
to move from where they were. The cuadrillero on this let go Don
Quixote’s beard, and went out to look for a light to search for and
apprehend the culprits; but not finding one, as the innkeeper had
purposely extinguished the lantern on retreating to his room, he was
compelled to have recourse to the hearth, where after much time and
trouble he lit another lamp.
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CHAPTER XVII.
IN WHICH ARE CONTAINED THE INNUMERABLE TROUBLES WHICH THE BRAVE DON
QUIXOTE AND HIS GOOD SQUIRE SANCHO PANZA ENDURED IN THE INN, WHICH TO
HIS MISFORTUNE HE TOOK TO BE A CASTLE
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By this time Don Quixote had recovered from his swoon; and in the same
tone of voice in which he had called to his squire the day before when
he lay stretched “in the vale of the stakes,” he began calling to him
now, “Sancho, my friend, art thou asleep? sleepest thou, friend
Sancho?”
“How can I sleep, curses on it!” returned Sancho discontentedly and
bitterly, “when it is plain that all the devils have been at me this
night?”
“Thou mayest well believe that,” answered Don Quixote, “because, either
I know little, or this castle is enchanted, for thou must know—but this
that I am now about to tell thee thou must swear to keep secret until
after my death.”
“I swear it,” answered Sancho.
“I say so,” continued Don Quixote, “because I hate taking away anyone’s
good name.”
“I say,” replied Sancho, “that I swear to hold my tongue about it till
the end of your worship’s days, and God grant I may be able to let it
out to-morrow.”
“Do I do thee such injuries, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “that thou
wouldst see me dead so soon?”
“It is not for that,” replied Sancho, “but because I hate keeping
things long, and I don’t want them to grow rotten with me from
over-keeping.”
“At any rate,” said Don Quixote, “I have more confidence in thy
affection and good nature; and so I would have thee know that this
night there befell me one of the strangest adventures that I could
describe, and to relate it to thee briefly thou must know that a little
while ago the daughter of the lord of this castle came to me, and that
she is the most elegant and beautiful damsel that could be found in the
wide world. What I could tell thee of the charms of her person! of her
lively wit! of other secret matters which, to preserve the fealty I owe
to my lady Dulcinea del Toboso, I shall pass over unnoticed and in
silence! I will only tell thee that, either fate being envious of so
great a boon placed in my hands by good fortune, or perhaps (and this
is more probable) this castle being, as I have already said, enchanted,
at the time when I was engaged in the sweetest and most amorous
discourse with her, there came, without my seeing or knowing whence it
came, a hand attached to some arm of some huge giant, that planted such
a cuff on my jaws that I have them all bathed in blood, and then
pummelled me in such a way that I am in a worse plight than yesterday
when the carriers, on account of Rocinante’s misbehaviour, inflicted on
us the injury thou knowest of; whence conjecture that there must be
some enchanted Moor guarding the treasure of this damsel’s beauty, and
that it is not for me.”
“Not for me either,” said Sancho, “for more than four hundred Moors
have so thrashed me that the drubbing of the stakes was cakes and
fancy-bread to it. But tell me, señor, what do you call this excellent
and rare adventure that has left us as we are left now? Though your
worship was not so badly off, having in your arms that incomparable
beauty you spoke of; but I, what did I have, except the heaviest whacks
I think I had in all my life? Unlucky me and the mother that bore me!
for I am not a knight-errant and never expect to be one, and of all the
mishaps, the greater part falls to my share.”
“Then thou hast been thrashed too?” said Don Quixote.
“Didn’t I say so? worse luck to my line!” said Sancho.
“Be not distressed, friend,” said Don Quixote, “for I will now make the
precious balsam with which we shall cure ourselves in the twinkling of
an eye.”
By this time the cuadrillero had succeeded in lighting the lamp, and
came in to see the man that he thought had been killed; and as Sancho
caught sight of him at the door, seeing him coming in his shirt, with a
cloth on his head, and a lamp in his hand, and a very forbidding
countenance, he said to his master, “Señor, can it be that this is the
enchanted Moor coming back to give us more castigation if there be
anything still left in the ink-bottle?”
“It cannot be the Moor,” answered Don Quixote, “for those under
enchantment do not let themselves be seen by anyone.”
“If they don’t let themselves be seen, they let themselves be felt,”
said Sancho; “if not, let my shoulders speak to the point.”
“Mine could speak too,” said Don Quixote, “but that is not a sufficient
reason for believing that what we see is the enchanted Moor.”
The officer came up, and finding them engaged in such a peaceful
conversation, stood amazed; though Don Quixote, to be sure, still lay
on his back unable to move from pure pummelling and plasters. The
officer turned to him and said, “Well, how goes it, good man?”
“I would speak more politely if I were you,” replied Don Quixote; “is
it the way of this country to address knights-errant in that style, you
booby?”
The cuadrillero finding himself so disrespectfully treated by such a
sorry-looking individual, lost his temper, and raising the lamp full of
oil, smote Don Quixote such a blow with it on the head that he gave him
a badly broken pate; then, all being in darkness, he went out, and
Sancho Panza said, “That is certainly the enchanted Moor, Señor, and he
keeps the treasure for others, and for us only the cuffs and
lamp-whacks.”
“That is the truth,” answered Don Quixote, “and there is no use in
troubling oneself about these matters of enchantment or being angry or
vexed at them, for as they are invisible and visionary we shall find no
one on whom to avenge ourselves, do what we may; rise, Sancho, if thou
canst, and call the alcaide of this fortress, and get him to give me a
little oil, wine, salt, and rosemary to make the salutiferous balsam,
for indeed I believe I have great need of it now, because I am losing
much blood from the wound that phantom gave me.”
Sancho got up with pain enough in his bones, and went after the
innkeeper in the dark, and meeting the officer, who was looking to see
what had become of his enemy, he said to him, “Señor, whoever you are,
do us the favour and kindness to give us a little rosemary, oil, salt,
and wine, for it is wanted to cure one of the best knights-errant on
earth, who lies on yonder bed wounded by the hands of the enchanted
Moor that is in this inn.”
When the officer heard him talk in this way, he took him for a man out
of his senses, and as day was now beginning to break, he opened the inn
gate, and calling the host, he told him what this good man wanted. The
host furnished him with what he required, and Sancho brought it to Don
Quixote, who, with his hand to his head, was bewailing the pain of the
blow of the lamp, which had done him no more harm than raising a couple
of rather large lumps, and what he fancied blood was only the sweat
that flowed from him in his sufferings during the late storm. To be
brief, he took the materials, of which he made a compound, mixing them
all and boiling them a good while until it seemed to him they had come
to perfection. He then asked for some vial to pour it into, and as
there was not one in the inn, he decided on putting it into a tin
oil-bottle or flask of which the host made him a free gift; and over
the flask he repeated more than eighty paternosters and as many more
ave-marias, salves, and credos, accompanying each word with a cross by
way of benediction, at all which there were present Sancho, the
innkeeper, and the cuadrillero; for the carrier was now peacefully
engaged in attending to the comfort of his mules.
This being accomplished, he felt anxious to make trial himself, on the
spot, of the virtue of this precious balsam, as he considered it, and
so he drank near a quart of what could not be put into the flask and
remained in the pigskin in which it had been boiled; but scarcely had
he done drinking when he began to vomit in such a way that nothing was
left in his stomach, and with the pangs and spasms of vomiting he broke
into a profuse sweat, on account of which he bade them cover him up and
leave him alone. They did so, and he lay sleeping more than three
hours, at the end of which he awoke and felt very great bodily relief
and so much ease from his bruises that he thought himself quite cured,
and verily believed he had hit upon the balsam of Fierabras; and that
with this remedy he might thenceforward, without any fear, face any
kind of destruction, battle, or combat, however perilous it might be.
Sancho Panza, who also regarded the amendment of his master as
miraculous, begged him to give him what was left in the pigskin, which
was no small quantity. Don Quixote consented, and he, taking it with
both hands, in good faith and with a better will, gulped down and
drained off very little less than his master. But the fact is, that the
stomach of poor Sancho was of necessity not so delicate as that of his
master, and so, before vomiting, he was seized with such gripings and
retchings, and such sweats and faintness, that verily and truly he
believed his last hour had come, and finding himself so racked and
tormented he cursed the balsam and the thief that had given it to him.
Don Quixote seeing him in this state said, “It is my belief, Sancho,
that this mischief comes of thy not being dubbed a knight, for I am
persuaded this liquor cannot be good for those who are not so.”
“If your worship knew that,” returned Sancho—“woe betide me and all my
kindred!—why did you let me taste it?”
At this moment the draught took effect, and the poor squire began to
discharge both ways at such a rate that the rush mat on which he had
thrown himself and the canvas blanket he had covering him were fit for
nothing afterwards. He sweated and perspired with such paroxysms and
convulsions that not only he himself but all present thought his end
had come. This tempest and tribulation lasted about two hours, at the
end of which he was left, not like his master, but so weak and
exhausted that he could not stand. Don Quixote, however, who, as has
been said, felt himself relieved and well, was eager to take his
departure at once in quest of adventures, as it seemed to him that all
the time he loitered there was a fraud upon the world and those in it
who stood in need of his help and protection, all the more when he had
the security and confidence his balsam afforded him; and so, urged by
this impulse, he saddled Rocinante himself and put the pack-saddle on
his squire’s beast, whom likewise he helped to dress and mount the ass;
after which he mounted his horse and turning to a corner of the inn he
laid hold of a pike that stood there, to serve him by way of a lance.
All that were in the inn, who were more than twenty persons, stood
watching him; the innkeeper’s daughter was likewise observing him, and
he too never took his eyes off her, and from time to time fetched a
sigh that he seemed to pluck up from the depths of his bowels; but they
all thought it must be from the pain he felt in his ribs; at any rate
they who had seen him plastered the night before thought so.
As soon as they were both mounted, at the gate of the inn, he called to
the host and said in a very grave and measured voice, “Many and great
are the favours, Señor Alcaide, that I have received in this castle of
yours, and I remain under the deepest obligation to be grateful to you
for them all the days of my life; if I can repay them in avenging you
of any arrogant foe who may have wronged you, know that my calling is
no other than to aid the weak, to avenge those who suffer wrong, and to
chastise perfidy. Search your memory, and if you find anything of this
kind you need only tell me of it, and I promise you by the order of
knighthood which I have received to procure you satisfaction and
reparation to the utmost of your desire.”
The innkeeper replied to him with equal calmness, “Sir Knight, I do not
want your worship to avenge me of any wrong, because when any is done
me I can take what vengeance seems good to me; the only thing I want is
that you pay me the score that you have run up in the inn last night,
as well for the straw and barley for your two beasts, as for supper and
beds.”
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“Then this is an inn?” said Don Quixote.
“And a very respectable one,” said the innkeeper.
“I have been under a mistake all this time,” answered Don Quixote, “for
in truth I thought it was a castle, and not a bad one; but since it
appears that it is not a castle but an inn, all that can be done now is
that you should excuse the payment, for I cannot contravene the rule of
knights-errant, of whom I know as a fact (and up to the present I have
read nothing to the contrary) that they never paid for lodging or
anything else in the inn where they might be; for any hospitality that
might be offered them is their due by law and right in return for the
insufferable toil they endure in seeking adventures by night and by
day, in summer and in winter, on foot and on horseback, in hunger and
thirst, cold and heat, exposed to all the inclemencies of heaven and
all the hardships of earth.”
“I have little to do with that,” replied the innkeeper; “pay me what
you owe me, and let us have no more talk of chivalry, for all I care
about is to get my money.”
“You are a stupid, scurvy innkeeper,” said Don Quixote, and putting
spurs to Rocinante and bringing his pike to the slope he rode out of
the inn before anyone could stop him, and pushed on some distance
without looking to see if his squire was following him.
The innkeeper when he saw him go without paying him ran to get payment
of Sancho, who said that as his master would not pay neither would he,
because, being as he was squire to a knight-errant, the same rule and
reason held good for him as for his master with regard to not paying
anything in inns and hostelries. At this the innkeeper waxed very
wroth, and threatened if he did not pay to compel him in a way that he
would not like. To which Sancho made answer that by the law of chivalry
his master had received he would not pay a rap, though it cost him his
life; for the excellent and ancient usage of knights-errant was not
going to be violated by him, nor should the squires of such as were yet
to come into the world ever complain of him or reproach him with
breaking so just a privilege.
The ill-luck of the unfortunate Sancho so ordered it that among the
company in the inn there were four woolcarders from Segovia, three
needle-makers from the Colt of Cordova, and two lodgers from the Fair
of Seville, lively fellows, tender-hearted, fond of a joke, and
playful, who, almost as if instigated and moved by a common impulse,
made up to Sancho and dismounted him from his ass, while one of them
went in for the blanket of the host’s bed; but on flinging him into it
they looked up, and seeing that the ceiling was somewhat lower than
what they required for their work, they decided upon going out into the
yard, which was bounded by the sky, and there, putting Sancho in the
middle of the blanket, they began to raise him high, making sport with
him as they would with a dog at Shrovetide.
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The cries of the poor blanketed wretch were so loud that they reached
the ears of his master, who, halting to listen attentively, was
persuaded that some new adventure was coming, until he clearly
perceived that it was his squire who uttered them. Wheeling about he
came up to the inn with a laborious gallop, and finding it shut went
round it to see if he could find some way of getting in; but as soon as
he came to the wall of the yard, which was not very high, he discovered
the game that was being played with his squire. He saw him rising and
falling in the air with such grace and nimbleness that, had his rage
allowed him, it is my belief he would have laughed. He tried to climb
from his horse on to the top of the wall, but he was so bruised and
battered that he could not even dismount; and so from the back of his
horse he began to utter such maledictions and objurgations against
those who were blanketing Sancho as it would be impossible to write
down accurately: they, however, did not stay their laughter or their
work for this, nor did the flying Sancho cease his lamentations,
mingled now with threats, now with entreaties but all to little
purpose, or none at all, until from pure weariness they left off. They
then brought him his ass, and mounting him on top of it they put his
jacket round him; and the compassionate Maritornes, seeing him so
exhausted, thought fit to refresh him with a jug of water, and that it
might be all the cooler she fetched it from the well. Sancho took it,
and as he was raising it to his mouth he was stopped by the cries of
his master exclaiming, “Sancho, my son, drink not water; drink it not,
my son, for it will kill thee; see, here I have the blessed balsam (and
he held up the flask of liquor), and with drinking two drops of it thou
wilt certainly be restored.”
At these words Sancho turned his eyes asquint, and in a still louder
voice said, “Can it be your worship has forgotten that I am not a
knight, or do you want me to end by vomiting up what bowels I have left
after last night? Keep your liquor in the name of all the devils, and
leave me to myself!” and at one and the same instant he left off
talking and began drinking; but as at the first sup he perceived it was
water he did not care to go on with it, and begged Maritornes to fetch
him some wine, which she did with right good will, and paid for it with
her own money; for indeed they say of her that, though she was in that
line of life, there was some faint and distant resemblance to a
Christian about her. When Sancho had done drinking he dug his heels
into his ass, and the gate of the inn being thrown open he passed out
very well pleased at having paid nothing and carried his point, though
it had been at the expense of his usual sureties, his shoulders. It is
true that the innkeeper detained his alforjas in payment of what was
owing to him, but Sancho took his departure in such a flurry that he
never missed them. The innkeeper, as soon as he saw him off, wanted to
bar the gate close, but the blanketers would not agree to it, for they
were fellows who would not have cared two farthings for Don Quixote,
even had he been really one of the knights-errant of the Round Table.
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CHAPTER XVIII.
IN WHICH IS RELATED THE DISCOURSE SANCHO PANZA HELD WITH HIS MASTER,
DON QUIXOTE, AND OTHER ADVENTURES WORTH RELATING
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Sancho reached his master so limp and faint that he could not urge on
his beast. When Don Quixote saw the state he was in he said, “I have
now come to the conclusion, good Sancho, that this castle or inn is
beyond a doubt enchanted, because those who have so atrociously
diverted themselves with thee, what can they be but phantoms or beings
of another world? and I hold this confirmed by having noticed that when
I was by the wall of the yard witnessing the acts of thy sad tragedy,
it was out of my power to mount upon it, nor could I even dismount from
Rocinante, because they no doubt had me enchanted; for I swear to thee
by the faith of what I am that if I had been able to climb up or
dismount, I would have avenged thee in such a way that those braggart
thieves would have remembered their freak for ever, even though in so
doing I knew that I contravened the laws of chivalry, which, as I have
often told thee, do not permit a knight to lay hands on him who is not
one, save in case of urgent and great necessity in defence of his own
life and person.”
“I would have avenged myself too if I could,” said Sancho, “whether I
had been dubbed knight or not, but I could not; though for my part I am
persuaded those who amused themselves with me were not phantoms or
enchanted men, as your worship says, but men of flesh and bone like
ourselves; and they all had their names, for I heard them name them
when they were tossing me, and one was called Pedro Martinez, and
another Tenorio Hernandez, and the innkeeper, I heard, was called Juan
Palomeque the Left-handed; so that, señor, your not being able to leap
over the wall of the yard or dismount from your horse came of something
else besides enchantments; and what I make out clearly from all this
is, that these adventures we go seeking will in the end lead us into
such misadventures that we shall not know which is our right foot; and
that the best and wisest thing, according to my small wits, would be
for us to return home, now that it is harvest-time, and attend to our
business, and give over wandering from Zeca to Mecca and from pail to
bucket, as the saying is.”
“How little thou knowest about chivalry, Sancho,” replied Don Quixote;
“hold thy peace and have patience; the day will come when thou shalt
see with thine own eyes what an honourable thing it is to wander in the
pursuit of this calling; nay, tell me, what greater pleasure can there
be in the world, or what delight can equal that of winning a battle,
and triumphing over one’s enemy? None, beyond all doubt.”
“Very likely,” answered Sancho, “though I do not know it; all I know is
that since we have been knights-errant, or since your worship has been
one (for I have no right to reckon myself one of so honourable a
number) we have never won any battle except the one with the Biscayan,
and even out of that your worship came with half an ear and half a
helmet the less; and from that till now it has been all cudgellings and
more cudgellings, cuffs and more cuffs, I getting the blanketing over
and above, and falling in with enchanted persons on whom I cannot
avenge myself so as to know what the delight, as your worship calls it,
of conquering an enemy is like.”
“That is what vexes me, and what ought to vex thee, Sancho,” replied
Don Quixote; “but henceforward I will endeavour to have at hand some
sword made by such craft that no kind of enchantments can take effect
upon him who carries it, and it is even possible that fortune may
procure for me that which belonged to Amadis when he was called ‘The
Knight of the Burning Sword,’ which was one of the best swords that
ever knight in the world possessed, for, besides having the said
virtue, it cut like a razor, and there was no armour, however strong
and enchanted it might be, that could resist it.”
“Such is my luck,” said Sancho, “that even if that happened and your
worship found some such sword, it would, like the balsam, turn out
serviceable and good for dubbed knights only, and as for the squires,
they might sup sorrow.”
“Fear not that, Sancho,” said Don Quixote: “Heaven will deal better by
thee.”
Thus talking, Don Quixote and his squire were going along, when, on the
road they were following, Don Quixote perceived approaching them a
large and thick cloud of dust, on seeing which he turned to Sancho and
said:
“This is the day, Sancho, on which will be seen the boon my fortune is
reserving for me; this, I say, is the day on which as much as on any
other shall be displayed the might of my arm, and on which I shall do
deeds that shall remain written in the book of fame for all ages to
come. Seest thou that cloud of dust which rises yonder? Well, then, all
that is churned up by a vast army composed of various and countless
nations that comes marching there.”
“According to that there must be two,” said Sancho, “for on this
opposite side also there rises just such another cloud of dust.”
Don Quixote turned to look and found that it was true, and rejoicing
exceedingly, he concluded that they were two armies about to engage and
encounter in the midst of that broad plain; for at all times and
seasons his fancy was full of the battles, enchantments, adventures,
crazy feats, loves, and defiances that are recorded in the books of
chivalry, and everything he said, thought, or did had reference to such
things. Now the cloud of dust he had seen was raised by two great
droves of sheep coming along the same road in opposite directions,
which, because of the dust, did not become visible until they drew
near, but Don Quixote asserted so positively that they were armies that
Sancho was led to believe it and say, “Well, and what are we to do,
señor?”
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“What?” said Don Quixote: “give aid and assistance to the weak and
those who need it; and thou must know, Sancho, that this which comes
opposite to us is conducted and led by the mighty emperor Alifanfaron,
lord of the great isle of Trapobana; this other that marches behind me
is that of his enemy the king of the Garamantas, Pentapolin of the Bare
Arm, for he always goes into battle with his right arm bare.”
“But why are these two lords such enemies?”
“They are at enmity,” replied Don Quixote, “because this Alifanfaron is
a furious pagan and is in love with the daughter of Pentapolin, who is
a very beautiful and moreover gracious lady, and a Christian, and her
father is unwilling to bestow her upon the pagan king unless he first
abandons the religion of his false prophet Mahomet, and adopts his
own.”
“By my beard,” said Sancho, “but Pentapolin does quite right, and I
will help him as much as I can.”
“In that thou wilt do what is thy duty, Sancho,” said Don Quixote; “for
to engage in battles of this sort it is not requisite to be a dubbed
knight.”
“That I can well understand,” answered Sancho; “but where shall we put
this ass where we may be sure to find him after the fray is over? for I
believe it has not been the custom so far to go into battle on a beast
of this kind.”
“That is true,” said Don Quixote, “and what you had best do with him is
to leave him to take his chance whether he be lost or not, for the
horses we shall have when we come out victors will be so many that even
Rocinante will run a risk of being changed for another. But attend to
me and observe, for I wish to give thee some account of the chief
knights who accompany these two armies; and that thou mayest the better
see and mark, let us withdraw to that hillock which rises yonder,
whence both armies may be seen.”
They did so, and placed themselves on a rising ground from which the
two droves that Don Quixote made armies of might have been plainly seen
if the clouds of dust they raised had not obscured them and blinded the
sight; nevertheless, seeing in his imagination what he did not see and
what did not exist, he began thus in a loud voice:
“That knight whom thou seest yonder in yellow armour, who bears upon
his shield a lion crowned crouching at the feet of a damsel, is the
valiant Laurcalco, lord of the Silver Bridge; that one in armour with
flowers of gold, who bears on his shield three crowns argent on an
azure field, is the dreaded Micocolembo, grand duke of Quirocia; that
other of gigantic frame, on his right hand, is the ever dauntless
Brandabarbaran de Boliche, lord of the three Arabias, who for armour
wears that serpent skin, and has for shield a gate which, according to
tradition, is one of those of the temple that Samson brought to the
ground when by his death he revenged himself upon his enemies. But turn
thine eyes to the other side, and thou shalt see in front and in the
van of this other army the ever victorious and never vanquished Timonel
of Carcajona, prince of New Biscay, who comes in armour with arms
quartered azure, vert, white, and yellow, and bears on his shield a cat
or on a field tawny with a motto which says _Miau_, which is the
beginning of the name of his lady, who according to report is the
peerless Miaulina, daughter of the duke Alfeniquen of the Algarve; the
other, who burdens and presses the loins of that powerful charger and
bears arms white as snow and a shield blank and without any device, is
a novice knight, a Frenchman by birth, Pierres Papin by name, lord of
the baronies of Utrique; that other, who with iron-shod heels strikes
the flanks of that nimble parti-coloured zebra, and for arms bears
azure vair, is the mighty duke of Nerbia, Espartafilardo del Bosque,
who bears for device on his shield an asparagus plant with a motto in
Castilian that says, _‘Rastrea mi suerte’_.” And so he went on naming a
number of knights of one squadron or the other out of his imagination,
and to all he assigned off-hand their arms, colours, devices, and
mottoes, carried away by the illusions of his unheard-of craze; and
without a pause, he continued, “People of divers nations compose this
squadron in front; here are those that drink of the sweet waters of the
famous Xanthus, those that scour the woody Massilian plains, those that
sift the pure fine gold of Arabia Felix, those that enjoy the famed
cool banks of the crystal Thermodon, those that in many and various
ways divert the streams of the golden Pactolus, the Numidians,
faithless in their promises, the Persians renowned in archery, the
Parthians and the Medes that fight as they fly, the Arabs that ever
shift their dwellings, the Scythians as cruel as they are fair, the
Ethiopians with pierced lips, and an infinity of other nations whose
features I recognise and descry, though I cannot recall their names. In
this other squadron there come those that drink of the crystal streams
of the olive-bearing Betis, those that make smooth their countenances
with the water of the ever rich and golden Tagus, those that rejoice in
the fertilising flow of the divine Genil, those that roam the Tartesian
plains abounding in pasture, those that take their pleasure in the
Elysian meadows of Jerez, the rich Manchegans crowned with ruddy ears
of corn, the wearers of iron, old relics of the Gothic race, those that
bathe in the Pisuerga renowned for its gentle current, those that feed
their herds along the spreading pastures of the winding Guadiana famed
for its hidden course, those that tremble with the cold of the pineclad
Pyrenees or the dazzling snows of the lofty Apennine; in a word, as
many as all Europe includes and contains.”
Good God! what a number of countries and nations he named! giving to
each its proper attributes with marvellous readiness; brimful and
saturated with what he had read in his lying books! Sancho Panza hung
upon his words without speaking, and from time to time turned to try if
he could see the knights and giants his master was describing, and as
he could not make out one of them he said to him:
“Señor, devil take it if there’s a sign of any man you talk of, knight
or giant, in the whole thing; maybe it’s all enchantment, like the
phantoms last night.”
“How canst thou say that!” answered Don Quixote; “dost thou not hear
the neighing of the steeds, the braying of the trumpets, the roll of
the drums?”
“I hear nothing but a great bleating of ewes and sheep,” said Sancho;
which was true, for by this time the two flocks had come close.
“The fear thou art in, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “prevents thee from
seeing or hearing correctly, for one of the effects of fear is to
derange the senses and make things appear different from what they are;
if thou art in such fear, withdraw to one side and leave me to myself,
for alone I suffice to bring victory to that side to which I shall give
my aid;” and so saying he gave Rocinante the spur, and putting the
lance in rest, shot down the slope like a thunderbolt. Sancho shouted
after him, crying, “Come back, Señor Don Quixote; I vow to God they are
sheep and ewes you are charging! Come back! Unlucky the father that
begot me! what madness is this! Look, there is no giant, nor knight,
nor cats, nor arms, nor shields quartered or whole, nor vair azure or
bedevilled. What are you about? Sinner that I am before God!” But not
for all these entreaties did Don Quixote turn back; on the contrary he
went on shouting out, “Ho, knights, ye who follow and fight under the
banners of the valiant emperor Pentapolin of the Bare Arm, follow me
all; ye shall see how easily I shall give him his revenge over his
enemy Alifanfaron of the Trapobana.”
So saying, he dashed into the midst of the squadron of ewes, and began
spearing them with as much spirit and intrepidity as if he were
transfixing mortal enemies in earnest. The shepherds and drovers
accompanying the flock shouted to him to desist; seeing it was no use,
they ungirt their slings and began to salute his ears with stones as
big as one’s fist. Don Quixote gave no heed to the stones, but, letting
drive right and left kept saying:
“Where art thou, proud Alifanfaron? Come before me; I am a single
knight who would fain prove thy prowess hand to hand, and make thee
yield thy life a penalty for the wrong thou dost to the valiant
Pentapolin Garamanta.” Here came a sugar-plum from the brook that
struck him on the side and buried a couple of ribs in his body. Feeling
himself so smitten, he imagined himself slain or badly wounded for
certain, and recollecting his liquor he drew out his flask, and putting
it to his mouth began to pour the contents into his stomach; but ere he
had succeeded in swallowing what seemed to him enough, there came
another almond which struck him on the hand and on the flask so fairly
that it smashed it to pieces, knocking three or four teeth and grinders
out of his mouth in its course, and sorely crushing two fingers of his
hand. Such was the force of the first blow and of the second, that the
poor knight in spite of himself came down backwards off his horse. The
shepherds came up, and felt sure they had killed him; so in all haste
they collected their flock together, took up the dead beasts, of which
there were more than seven, and made off without waiting to ascertain
anything further.
All this time Sancho stood on the hill watching the crazy feats his
master was performing, and tearing his beard and cursing the hour and
the occasion when fortune had made him acquainted with him. Seeing him,
then, brought to the ground, and that the shepherds had taken
themselves off, he ran to him and found him in very bad case, though
not unconscious; and said he:
“Did I not tell you to come back, Señor Don Quixote; and that what you
were going to attack were not armies but droves of sheep?”
“That’s how that thief of a sage, my enemy, can alter and falsify
things,” answered Don Quixote; “thou must know, Sancho, that it is a
very easy matter for those of his sort to make us believe what they
choose; and this malignant being who persecutes me, envious of the
glory he knew I was to win in this battle, has turned the squadrons of
the enemy into droves of sheep. At any rate, do this much, I beg of
thee, Sancho, to undeceive thyself, and see that what I say is true;
mount thy ass and follow them quietly, and thou shalt see that when
they have gone some little distance from this they will return to their
original shape and, ceasing to be sheep, become men in all respects as
I described them to thee at first. But go not just yet, for I want thy
help and assistance; come hither, and see how many of my teeth and
grinders are missing, for I feel as if there was not one left in my
mouth.”
Sancho came so close that he almost put his eyes into his mouth; now
just at that moment the balsam had acted on the stomach of Don Quixote,
so, at the very instant when Sancho came to examine his mouth, he
discharged all its contents with more force than a musket, and full
into the beard of the compassionate squire.
“Holy Mary!” cried Sancho, “what is this that has happened me? Clearly
this sinner is mortally wounded, as he vomits blood from the mouth;”
but considering the matter a little more closely he perceived by the
colour, taste, and smell, that it was not blood but the balsam from the
flask which he had seen him drink; and he was taken with such a
loathing that his stomach turned, and he vomited up his inside over his
very master, and both were left in a precious state. Sancho ran to his
ass to get something wherewith to clean himself, and relieve his
master, out of his alforjas; but not finding them, he well-nigh took
leave of his senses, and cursed himself anew, and in his heart resolved
to quit his master and return home, even though he forfeited the wages
of his service and all hopes of the promised island.
Don Quixote now rose, and putting his left hand to his mouth to keep
his teeth from falling out altogether, with the other he laid hold of
the bridle of Rocinante, who had never stirred from his master’s
side—so loyal and well-behaved was he—and betook himself to where the
squire stood leaning over his ass with his hand to his cheek, like one
in deep dejection. Seeing him in this mood, looking so sad, Don Quixote
said to him:
“Bear in mind, Sancho, that one man is no more than another, unless he
does more than another; all these tempests that fall upon us are signs
that fair weather is coming shortly, and that things will go well with
us, for it is impossible for good or evil to last for ever; and hence
it follows that the evil having lasted long, the good must be now nigh
at hand; so thou must not distress thyself at the misfortunes which
happen to me, since thou hast no share in them.”
“How have I not?” replied Sancho; “was he whom they blanketed yesterday
perchance any other than my father’s son? and the alforjas that are
missing to-day with all my treasures, did they belong to any other but
myself?”
“What! are the alforjas missing, Sancho?” said Don Quixote.
“Yes, they are missing,” answered Sancho.
“In that case we have nothing to eat to-day,” replied Don Quixote.
“It would be so,” answered Sancho, “if there were none of the herbs
your worship says you know in these meadows, those with which
knights-errant as unlucky as your worship are wont to supply such-like
shortcomings.”
“For all that,” answered Don Quixote, “I would rather have just now a
quarter of bread, or a loaf and a couple of pilchards’ heads, than all
the herbs described by Dioscorides, even with Doctor Laguna’s notes.
Nevertheless, Sancho the Good, mount thy beast and come along with me,
for God, who provides for all things, will not fail us (more especially
when we are so active in his service as we are), since he fails not the
midges of the air, nor the grubs of the earth, nor the tadpoles of the
water, and is so merciful that he maketh his sun to rise on the good
and on the evil, and sendeth rain on the unjust and on the just.”
“Your worship would make a better preacher than knight-errant,” said
Sancho.
“Knights-errant knew and ought to know everything, Sancho,” said Don
Quixote; “for there were knights-errant in former times as well
qualified to deliver a sermon or discourse in the middle of an
encampment, as if they had graduated in the University of Paris;
whereby we may see that the lance has never blunted the pen, nor the
pen the lance.”
“Well, be it as your worship says,” replied Sancho; “let us be off now
and find some place of shelter for the night, and God grant it may be
somewhere where there are no blankets, nor blanketeers, nor phantoms,
nor enchanted Moors; for if there are, may the devil take the whole
concern.”
“Ask that of God, my son,” said Don Quixote; and do thou lead on where
thou wilt, for this time I leave our lodging to thy choice; but reach
me here thy hand, and feel with thy finger, and find out how many of my
teeth and grinders are missing from this right side of the upper jaw,
for it is there I feel the pain.”
Sancho put in his fingers, and feeling about asked him, “How many
grinders used your worship have on this side?”
“Four,” replied Don Quixote, “besides the back-tooth, all whole and
quite sound.”
“Mind what you are saying, señor.”
“I say four, if not five,” answered Don Quixote, “for never in my life
have I had tooth or grinder drawn, nor has any fallen out or been
destroyed by any decay or rheum.”
“Well, then,” said Sancho, “in this lower side your worship has no more
than two grinders and a half, and in the upper neither a half nor any
at all, for it is all as smooth as the palm of my hand.”
“Luckless that I am!” said Don Quixote, hearing the sad news his squire
gave him; “I had rather they despoiled me of an arm, so it were not the
sword-arm; for I tell thee, Sancho, a mouth without teeth is like a
mill without a millstone, and a tooth is much more to be prized than a
diamond; but we who profess the austere order of chivalry are liable to
all this. Mount, friend, and lead the way, and I will follow thee at
whatever pace thou wilt.”
Sancho did as he bade him, and proceeded in the direction in which he
thought he might find refuge without quitting the high road, which was
there very much frequented. As they went along, then, at a slow
pace—for the pain in Don Quixote’s jaws kept him uneasy and
ill-disposed for speed—Sancho thought it well to amuse and divert him
by talk of some kind, and among the things he said to him was that
which will be told in the following chapter.
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CHAPTER XIX.
OF THE SHREWD DISCOURSE WHICH SANCHO HELD WITH HIS MASTER, AND OF THE
ADVENTURE THAT BEFELL HIM WITH A DEAD BODY, TOGETHER WITH OTHER NOTABLE
OCCURRENCES
“It seems to me, señor, that all these mishaps that have befallen us of
late have been without any doubt a punishment for the offence committed
by your worship against the order of chivalry in not keeping the oath
you made not to eat bread off a tablecloth or embrace the queen, and
all the rest of it that your worship swore to observe until you had
taken that helmet of Malandrino’s, or whatever the Moor is called, for
I do not very well remember.”
“Thou art very right, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “but to tell the
truth, it had escaped my memory; and likewise thou mayest rely upon it
that the affair of the blanket happened to thee because of thy fault in
not reminding me of it in time; but I will make amends, for there are
ways of compounding for everything in the order of chivalry.”
“Why! have I taken an oath of some sort, then?” said Sancho.
“It makes no matter that thou hast not taken an oath,” said Don
Quixote; “suffice it that I see thou art not quite clear of complicity;
and whether or no, it will not be ill done to provide ourselves with a
remedy.”
“In that case,” said Sancho, “mind that your worship does not forget
this as you did the oath; perhaps the phantoms may take it into their
heads to amuse themselves once more with me; or even with your worship
if they see you so obstinate.”
While engaged in this and other talk, night overtook them on the road
before they had reached or discovered any place of shelter; and what
made it still worse was that they were dying of hunger, for with the
loss of the alforjas they had lost their entire larder and
commissariat; and to complete the misfortune they met with an adventure
which without any invention had really the appearance of one. It so
happened that the night closed in somewhat darkly, but for all that
they pushed on, Sancho feeling sure that as the road was the king’s
highway they might reasonably expect to find some inn within a league
or two. Going along, then, in this way, the night dark, the squire
hungry, the master sharp-set, they saw coming towards them on the road
they were travelling a great number of lights which looked exactly like
stars in motion. Sancho was taken aback at the sight of them, nor did
Don Quixote altogether relish them: the one pulled up his ass by the
halter, the other his hack by the bridle, and they stood still,
watching anxiously to see what all this would turn out to be, and found
that the lights were approaching them, and the nearer they came the
greater they seemed, at which spectacle Sancho began to shake like a
man dosed with mercury, and Don Quixote’s hair stood on end; he,
however, plucking up spirit a little, said:
“This, no doubt, Sancho, will be a most mighty and perilous adventure,
in which it will be needful for me to put forth all my valour and
resolution.”
“Unlucky me!” answered Sancho; “if this adventure happens to be one of
phantoms, as I am beginning to think it is, where shall I find the ribs
to bear it?”
“Be they phantoms ever so much,” said Don Quixote, “I will not permit
them to touch a thread of thy garments; for if they played tricks with
thee the time before, it was because I was unable to leap the walls of
the yard; but now we are on a wide plain, where I shall be able to
wield my sword as I please.”
“And if they enchant and cripple you as they did the last time,” said
Sancho, “what difference will it make being on the open plain or not?”
“For all that,” replied Don Quixote, “I entreat thee, Sancho, to keep a
good heart, for experience will tell thee what mine is.”
“I will, please God,” answered Sancho, and the two retiring to one side
of the road set themselves to observe closely what all these moving
lights might be; and very soon afterwards they made out some twenty
encamisados, all on horseback, with lighted torches in their hands, the
awe-inspiring aspect of whom completely extinguished the courage of
Sancho, who began to chatter with his teeth like one in the cold fit of
an ague; and his heart sank and his teeth chattered still more when
they perceived distinctly that behind them there came a litter covered
over with black and followed by six more mounted figures in mourning
down to the very feet of their mules—for they could perceive plainly
they were not horses by the easy pace at which they went. And as the
encamisados came along they muttered to themselves in a low plaintive
tone. This strange spectacle at such an hour and in such a solitary
place was quite enough to strike terror into Sancho’s heart, and even
into his master’s; and (save in Don Quixote’s case) did so, for all
Sancho’s resolution had now broken down. It was just the opposite with
his master, whose imagination immediately conjured up all this to him
vividly as one of the adventures of his books.
He took it into his head that the litter was a bier on which was borne
some sorely wounded or slain knight, to avenge whom was a task reserved
for him alone; and without any further reasoning he laid his lance in
rest, fixed himself firmly in his saddle, and with gallant spirit and
bearing took up his position in the middle of the road where the
encamisados must of necessity pass; and as soon as he saw them near at
hand he raised his voice and said:
“Halt, knights, or whosoever ye may be, and render me account of who ye
are, whence ye come, where ye go, what it is ye carry upon that bier,
for, to judge by appearances, either ye have done some wrong or some
wrong has been done to you, and it is fitting and necessary that I
should know, either that I may chastise you for the evil ye have done,
or else that I may avenge you for the injury that has been inflicted
upon you.”
“We are in haste,” answered one of the encamisados, “and the inn is far
off, and we cannot stop to render you such an account as you demand;”
and spurring his mule he moved on.
Don Quixote was mightily provoked by this answer, and seizing the mule
by the bridle he said, “Halt, and be more mannerly, and render an
account of what I have asked of you; else, take my defiance to combat,
all of you.”
The mule was shy, and was so frightened at her bridle being seized that
rearing up she flung her rider to the ground over her haunches. An
attendant who was on foot, seeing the encamisado fall, began to abuse
Don Quixote, who now moved to anger, without any more ado, laying his
lance in rest charged one of the men in mourning and brought him badly
wounded to the ground, and as he wheeled round upon the others the
agility with which he attacked and routed them was a sight to see, for
it seemed just as if wings had that instant grown upon Rocinante, so
lightly and proudly did he bear himself. The encamisados were all timid
folk and unarmed, so they speedily made their escape from the fray and
set off at a run across the plain with their lighted torches, looking
exactly like maskers running on some gala or festival night. The
mourners, too, enveloped and swathed in their skirts and gowns, were
unable to bestir themselves, and so with entire safety to himself Don
Quixote belaboured them all and drove them off against their will, for
they all thought it was no man but a devil from hell come to carry away
the dead body they had in the litter.
Sancho beheld all this in astonishment at the intrepidity of his lord,
and said to himself, “Clearly this master of mine is as bold and
valiant as he says he is.”
A burning torch lay on the ground near the first man whom the mule had
thrown, by the light of which Don Quixote perceived him, and coming up
to him he presented the point of the lance to his face, calling on him
to yield himself prisoner, or else he would kill him; to which the
prostrate man replied, “I am prisoner enough as it is; I cannot stir,
for one of my legs is broken: I entreat you, if you be a Christian
gentleman, not to kill me, which will be committing grave sacrilege,
for I am a licentiate and I hold first orders.”
“Then what the devil brought you here, being a churchman?” said Don
Quixote.
“What, señor?” said the other. “My bad luck.”
“Then still worse awaits you,” said Don Quixote, “if you do not satisfy
me as to all I asked you at first.”
“You shall be soon satisfied,” said the licentiate; “you must know,
then, that though just now I said I was a licentiate, I am only a
bachelor, and my name is Alonzo Lopez; I am a native of Alcobendas, I
come from the city of Baeza with eleven others, priests, the same who
fled with the torches, and we are going to the city of Segovia
accompanying a dead body which is in that litter, and is that of a
gentleman who died in Baeza, where he was interred; and now, as I said,
we are taking his bones to their burial-place, which is in Segovia,
where he was born.”
“And who killed him?” asked Don Quixote.
“God, by means of a malignant fever that took him,” answered the
bachelor.
“In that case,” said Don Quixote, “the Lord has relieved me of the task
of avenging his death had any other slain him; but, he who slew him
having slain him, there is nothing for it but to be silent, and shrug
one’s shoulders; I should do the same were he to slay myself; and I
would have your reverence know that I am a knight of La Mancha, Don
Quixote by name, and it is my business and calling to roam the world
righting wrongs and redressing injuries.”
“I do not know how that about righting wrongs can be,” said the
bachelor, “for from straight you have made me crooked, leaving me with
a broken leg that will never see itself straight again all the days of
its life; and the injury you have redressed in my case has been to
leave me injured in such a way that I shall remain injured for ever;
and the height of misadventure it was to fall in with you who go in
search of adventures.”
“Things do not all happen in the same way,” answered Don Quixote; “it
all came, Sir Bachelor Alonzo Lopez, of your going, as you did, by
night, dressed in those surplices, with lighted torches, praying,
covered with mourning, so that naturally you looked like something evil
and of the other world; and so I could not avoid doing my duty in
attacking you, and I should have attacked you even had I known
positively that you were the very devils of hell, for such I certainly
believed and took you to be.”
“As my fate has so willed it,” said the bachelor, “I entreat you, sir
knight-errant, whose errand has been such an evil one for me, to help
me to get from under this mule that holds one of my legs caught between
the stirrup and the saddle.”
“I would have talked on till to-morrow,” said Don Quixote; “how long
were you going to wait before telling me of your distress?”
He at once called to Sancho, who, however, had no mind to come, as he
was just then engaged in unloading a sumpter mule, well laden with
provender, which these worthy gentlemen had brought with them. Sancho
made a bag of his coat, and, getting together as much as he could, and
as the bag would hold, he loaded his beast, and then hastened to obey
his master’s call, and helped him to remove the bachelor from under the
mule; then putting him on her back he gave him the torch, and Don
Quixote bade him follow the track of his companions, and beg pardon of
them on his part for the wrong which he could not help doing them.
And said Sancho, “If by chance these gentlemen should want to know who
was the hero that served them so, your worship may tell them that he is
the famous Don Quixote of La Mancha, otherwise called the Knight of the
Rueful Countenance.”
The bachelor then took his departure.
I forgot to mention that before he did so he said to Don Quixote,
“Remember that you stand excommunicated for having laid violent hands
on a holy thing, _juxta illud, si quis, suadente diabolo_.”
“I do not understand that Latin,” answered Don Quixote, “but I know
well I did not lay hands, only this pike; besides, I did not think I
was committing an assault upon priests or things of the Church, which,
like a Catholic and faithful Christian as I am, I respect and revere,
but upon phantoms and spectres of the other world; but even so, I
remember how it fared with Cid Ruy Diaz when he broke the chair of the
ambassador of that king before his Holiness the Pope, who
excommunicated him for the same; and yet the good Roderick of Vivar
bore himself that day like a very noble and valiant knight.”
On hearing this the bachelor took his departure, as has been said,
without making any reply; and Don Quixote asked Sancho what had induced
him to call him the “Knight of the Rueful Countenance” more then than
at any other time.
“I will tell you,” answered Sancho; “it was because I have been looking
at you for some time by the light of the torch held by that
unfortunate, and verily your worship has got of late the most
ill-favoured countenance I ever saw: it must be either owing to the
fatigue of this combat, or else to the want of teeth and grinders.”
“It is not that,” replied Don Quixote, “but because the sage whose duty
it will be to write the history of my achievements must have thought it
proper that I should take some distinctive name as all knights of yore
did; one being ‘He of the Burning Sword,’ another ‘He of the Unicorn,’
this one ‘He of the Damsels,’ that ‘He of the Phœnix,’ another ‘The
Knight of the Griffin,’ and another ‘He of the Death,’ and by these
names and designations they were known all the world round; and so I
say that the sage aforesaid must have put it into your mouth and mind
just now to call me ‘The Knight of the Rueful Countenance,’ as I intend
to call myself from this day forward; and that the said name may fit me
better, I mean, when the opportunity offers, to have a very rueful
countenance painted on my shield.”
“There is no occasion, señor, for wasting time or money on making that
countenance,” said Sancho; “for all that need be done is for your
worship to show your own, face to face, to those who look at you, and
without anything more, either image or shield, they will call you ‘Him
of the Rueful Countenance’ and believe me I am telling you the truth,
for I assure you, señor (and in good part be it said), hunger and the
loss of your grinders have given you such an ill-favoured face that, as
I say, the rueful picture may be very well spared.”
Don Quixote laughed at Sancho’s pleasantry; nevertheless he resolved to
call himself by that name, and have his shield or buckler painted as he
had devised.
Don Quixote would have looked to see whether the body in the litter
were bones or not, but Sancho would not have it, saying:
“Señor, you have ended this perilous adventure more safely for yourself
than any of those I have seen: perhaps these people, though beaten and
routed, may bethink themselves that it is a single man that has beaten
them, and feeling sore and ashamed of it may take heart and come in
search of us and give us trouble enough. The ass is in proper trim, the
mountains are near at hand, hunger presses, we have nothing more to do
but make good our retreat, and, as the saying is, the dead to the grave
and the living to the loaf.”
And driving his ass before him he begged his master to follow, who,
feeling that Sancho was right, did so without replying; and after
proceeding some little distance between two hills they found themselves
in a wide and retired valley, where they alighted, and Sancho unloaded
his beast, and stretched upon the green grass, with hunger for sauce,
they breakfasted, dined, lunched, and supped all at once, satisfying
their appetites with more than one store of cold meat which the dead
man’s clerical gentlemen (who seldom put themselves on short allowance)
had brought with them on their sumpter mule. But another piece of
ill-luck befell them, which Sancho held the worst of all, and that was
that they had no wine to drink, nor even water to moisten their lips;
and as thirst tormented them, Sancho, observing that the meadow where
they were was full of green and tender grass, said what will be told in
the following chapter.
CHAPTER XX.
OF THE UNEXAMPLED AND UNHEARD-OF ADVENTURE WHICH WAS ACHIEVED BY THE
VALIANT DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA WITH LESS PERIL THAN ANY EVER ACHIEVED
BY ANY FAMOUS KNIGHT IN THE WORLD
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“It cannot be, señor, but that this grass is a proof that there must be
hard by some spring or brook to give it moisture, so it would be well
to move a little farther on, that we may find some place where we may
quench this terrible thirst that plagues us, which beyond a doubt is
more distressing than hunger.”
The advice seemed good to Don Quixote, and, he leading Rocinante by the
bridle and Sancho the ass by the halter, after he had packed away upon
him the remains of the supper, they advanced the meadow feeling their
way, for the darkness of the night made it impossible to see anything;
but they had not gone two hundred paces when a loud noise of water, as
if falling from great rocks, struck their ears. The sound cheered them
greatly; but halting to make out by listening from what quarter it came
they heard unseasonably another noise which spoiled the satisfaction
the sound of the water gave them, especially for Sancho, who was by
nature timid and faint-hearted. They heard, I say, strokes falling with
a measured beat, and a certain rattling of iron and chains that,
together with the furious din of the water, would have struck terror
into any heart but Don Quixote’s. The night was, as has been said,
dark, and they had happened to reach a spot in among some tall trees,
whose leaves stirred by a gentle breeze made a low ominous sound; so
that, what with the solitude, the place, the darkness, the noise of the
water, and the rustling of the leaves, everything inspired awe and
dread; more especially as they perceived that the strokes did not
cease, nor the wind lull, nor morning approach; to all which might be
added their ignorance as to where they were.
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But Don Quixote, supported by his intrepid heart, leaped on Rocinante,
and bracing his buckler on his arm, brought his pike to the slope, and
said, “Friend Sancho, know that I by Heaven’s will have been born in
this our iron age to revive in it the age of gold, or the golden as it
is called; I am he for whom perils, mighty achievements, and valiant
deeds are reserved; I am, I say again, he who is to revive the Knights
of the Round Table, the Twelve of France and the Nine Worthies; and he
who is to consign to oblivion the Platirs, the Tablantes, the Olivantes
and Tirantes, the Phœbuses and Belianises, with the whole herd of
famous knights-errant of days gone by, performing in these in which I
live such exploits, marvels, and feats of arms as shall obscure their
brightest deeds. Thou dost mark well, faithful and trusty squire, the
gloom of this night, its strange silence, the dull confused murmur of
those trees, the awful sound of that water in quest of which we came,
that seems as though it were precipitating and dashing itself down from
the lofty mountains of the Moon, and that incessant hammering that
wounds and pains our ears; which things all together and each of itself
are enough to instil fear, dread, and dismay into the breast of Mars
himself, much more into one not used to hazards and adventures of the
kind. Well, then, all this that I put before thee is but an incentive
and stimulant to my spirit, making my heart burst in my bosom through
eagerness to engage in this adventure, arduous as it promises to be;
therefore tighten Rocinante’s girths a little, and God be with thee;
wait for me here three days and no more, and if in that time I come not
back, thou canst return to our village, and thence, to do me a favour
and a service, thou wilt go to El Toboso, where thou shalt say to my
incomparable lady Dulcinea that her captive knight hath died in
attempting things that might make him worthy of being called hers.”
When Sancho heard his master’s words he began to weep in the most
pathetic way, saying:
“Señor, I know not why your worship wants to attempt this so dreadful
adventure; it is night now, no one sees us here, we can easily turn
about and take ourselves out of danger, even if we don’t drink for
three days to come; and as there is no one to see us, all the less will
there be anyone to set us down as cowards; besides, I have many a time
heard the curate of our village, whom your worship knows well, preach
that he who seeks danger perishes in it; so it is not right to tempt
God by trying so tremendous a feat from which there can be no escape
save by a miracle, and Heaven has performed enough of them for your
worship in delivering you from being blanketed as I was, and bringing
you out victorious and safe and sound from among all those enemies that
were with the dead man; and if all this does not move or soften that
hard heart, let this thought and reflection move it, that you will have
hardly quitted this spot when from pure fear I shall yield my soul up
to anyone that will take it. I left home and wife and children to come
and serve your worship, trusting to do better and not worse; but as
covetousness bursts the bag, it has rent my hopes asunder, for just as
I had them highest about getting that wretched unlucky island your
worship has so often promised me, I see that instead and in lieu of it
you mean to desert me now in a place so far from human reach: for God’s
sake, master mine, deal not so unjustly by me, and if your worship will
not entirely give up attempting this feat, at least put it off till
morning, for by what the lore I learned when I was a shepherd tells me
it cannot want three hours of dawn now, because the mouth of the Horn
is overhead and makes midnight in the line of the left arm.”
“How canst thou see, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “where it makes that
line, or where this mouth or this occiput is that thou talkest of, when
the night is so dark that there is not a star to be seen in the whole
heaven?”
“That’s true,” said Sancho, “but fear has sharp eyes, and sees things
underground, much more above in heavens; besides, there is good reason
to show that it now wants but little of day.”
“Let it want what it may,” replied Don Quixote, “it shall not be said
of me now or at any time that tears or entreaties turned me aside from
doing what was in accordance with knightly usage; and so I beg of thee,
Sancho, to hold thy peace, for God, who has put it into my heart to
undertake now this so unexampled and terrible adventure, will take care
to watch over my safety and console thy sorrow; what thou hast to do is
to tighten Rocinante’s girths well, and wait here, for I shall come
back shortly, alive or dead.”
Sancho perceiving it his master’s final resolve, and how little his
tears, counsels, and entreaties prevailed with him, determined to have
recourse to his own ingenuity and compel him, if he could, to wait till
daylight; and so, while tightening the girths of the horse, he quietly
and without being felt, with his ass’ halter tied both Rocinante’s
legs, so that when Don Quixote strove to go he was unable as the horse
could only move by jumps. Seeing the success of his trick, Sancho Panza
said:
“See there, señor! Heaven, moved by my tears and prayers, has so
ordered it that Rocinante cannot stir; and if you will be obstinate,
and spur and strike him, you will only provoke fortune, and kick, as
they say, against the pricks.”
Don Quixote at this grew desperate, but the more he drove his heels
into the horse, the less he stirred him; and not having any suspicion
of the tying, he was fain to resign himself and wait till daybreak or
until Rocinante could move, firmly persuaded that all this came of
something other than Sancho’s ingenuity. So he said to him, “As it is
so, Sancho, and as Rocinante cannot move, I am content to wait till
dawn smiles upon us, even though I weep while it delays its coming.”
“There is no need to weep,” answered Sancho, “for I will amuse your
worship by telling stories from this till daylight, unless indeed you
like to dismount and lie down to sleep a little on the green grass
after the fashion of knights-errant, so as to be fresher when day comes
and the moment arrives for attempting this extraordinary adventure you
are looking forward to.”
“What art thou talking about dismounting or sleeping for?” said Don
Quixote. “Am I, thinkest thou, one of those knights that take their
rest in the presence of danger? Sleep thou who art born to sleep, or do
as thou wilt, for I will act as I think most consistent with my
character.”
“Be not angry, master mine,” replied Sancho, “I did not mean to say
that;” and coming close to him he laid one hand on the pommel of the
saddle and the other on the cantle so that he held his master’s left
thigh in his embrace, not daring to separate a finger’s width from him;
so much afraid was he of the strokes which still resounded with a
regular beat. Don Quixote bade him tell some story to amuse him as he
had proposed, to which Sancho replied that he would if his dread of
what he heard would let him; “Still,” said he, “I will strive to tell a
story which, if I can manage to relate it, and nobody interferes with
the telling, is the best of stories, and let your worship give me your
attention, for here I begin. What was, was; and may the good that is to
come be for all, and the evil for him who goes to look for it—your
worship must know that the beginning the old folk used to put to their
tales was not just as each one pleased; it was a maxim of Cato
Zonzorino the Roman, that says ‘the evil for him that goes to look for
it,’ and it comes as pat to the purpose now as ring to finger, to show
that your worship should keep quiet and not go looking for evil in any
quarter, and that we should go back by some other road, since nobody
forces us to follow this in which so many terrors affright us.”
“Go on with thy story, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “and leave the choice
of our road to my care.”
“I say then,” continued Sancho, “that in a village of Estremadura there
was a goat-shepherd—that is to say, one who tended goats—which shepherd
or goatherd, as my story goes, was called Lope Ruiz, and this Lope Ruiz
was in love with a shepherdess called Torralva, which shepherdess
called Torralva was the daughter of a rich grazier, and this rich
grazier—”
“If that is the way thou tellest thy tale, Sancho,” said Don Quixote,
“repeating twice all thou hast to say, thou wilt not have done these
two days; go straight on with it, and tell it like a reasonable man, or
else say nothing.”
“Tales are always told in my country in the very way I am telling
this,” answered Sancho, “and I cannot tell it in any other, nor is it
right of your worship to ask me to make new customs.”
“Tell it as thou wilt,” replied Don Quixote; “and as fate will have it
that I cannot help listening to thee, go on.”
“And so, lord of my soul,” continued Sancho, as I have said, this
shepherd was in love with Torralva the shepherdess, who was a wild
buxom lass with something of the look of a man about her, for she had
little moustaches; I fancy I see her now.”
“Then you knew her?” said Don Quixote.
“I did not know her,” said Sancho, “but he who told me the story said
it was so true and certain that when I told it to another I might
safely declare and swear I had seen it all myself. And so in course of
time, the devil, who never sleeps and puts everything in confusion,
contrived that the love the shepherd bore the shepherdess turned into
hatred and ill-will, and the reason, according to evil tongues, was
some little jealousy she caused him that crossed the line and
trespassed on forbidden ground; and so much did the shepherd hate her
from that time forward that, in order to escape from her, he determined
to quit the country and go where he should never set eyes on her again.
Torralva, when she found herself spurned by Lope, was immediately
smitten with love for him, though she had never loved him before.”
“That is the natural way of women,” said Don Quixote, “to scorn the one
that loves them, and love the one that hates them: go on, Sancho.”
“It came to pass,” said Sancho, “that the shepherd carried out his
intention, and driving his goats before him took his way across the
plains of Estremadura to pass over into the Kingdom of Portugal.
Torralva, who knew of it, went after him, and on foot and barefoot
followed him at a distance, with a pilgrim’s staff in her hand and a
scrip round her neck, in which she carried, it is said, a bit of
looking-glass and a piece of a comb and some little pot or other of
paint for her face; but let her carry what she did, I am not going to
trouble myself to prove it; all I say is, that the shepherd, they say,
came with his flock to cross over the river Guadiana, which was at that
time swollen and almost overflowing its banks, and at the spot he came
to there was neither ferry nor boat nor anyone to carry him or his
flock to the other side, at which he was much vexed, for he perceived
that Torralva was approaching and would give him great annoyance with
her tears and entreaties; however, he went looking about so closely
that he discovered a fisherman who had alongside of him a boat so small
that it could only hold one person and one goat; but for all that he
spoke to him and agreed with him to carry himself and his three hundred
goats across. The fisherman got into the boat and carried one goat
over; he came back and carried another over; he came back again, and
again brought over another—let your worship keep count of the goats the
fisherman is taking across, for if one escapes the memory there will be
an end of the story, and it will be impossible to tell another word of
it. To proceed, I must tell you the landing place on the other side was
miry and slippery, and the fisherman lost a great deal of time in going
and coming; still he returned for another goat, and another, and
another.”
“Take it for granted he brought them all across,” said Don Quixote,
“and don’t keep going and coming in this way, or thou wilt not make an
end of bringing them over this twelvemonth.”
“How many have gone across so far?” said Sancho.
“How the devil do I know?” replied Don Quixote.
“There it is,” said Sancho, “what I told you, that you must keep a good
count; well then, by God, there is an end of the story, for there is no
going any farther.”
“How can that be?” said Don Quixote; “is it so essential to the story
to know to a nicety the goats that have crossed over, that if there be
a mistake of one in the reckoning, thou canst not go on with it?”
“No, señor, not a bit,” replied Sancho; “for when I asked your worship
to tell me how many goats had crossed, and you answered you did not
know, at that very instant all I had to say passed away out of my
memory, and, faith, there was much virtue in it, and entertainment.”
“So, then,” said Don Quixote, “the story has come to an end?”
“As much as my mother has,” said Sancho.
“In truth,” said Don Quixote, “thou hast told one of the rarest
stories, tales, or histories, that anyone in the world could have
imagined, and such a way of telling it and ending it was never seen nor
will be in a lifetime; though I expected nothing else from thy
excellent understanding. But I do not wonder, for perhaps those
ceaseless strokes may have confused thy wits.”
“All that may be,” replied Sancho, “but I know that as to my story, all
that can be said is that it ends there where the mistake in the count
of the passage of the goats begins.”
“Let it end where it will, well and good,” said Don Quixote, “and let
us see if Rocinante can go;” and again he spurred him, and again
Rocinante made jumps and remained where he was, so well tied was he.
Just then, whether it was the cold of the morning that was now
approaching, or that he had eaten something laxative at supper, or that
it was only natural (as is most likely), Sancho felt a desire to do
what no one could do for him; but so great was the fear that had
penetrated his heart, he dared not separate himself from his master by
as much as the black of his nail; to escape doing what he wanted was,
however, also impossible; so what he did for peace’s sake was to remove
his right hand, which held the back of the saddle, and with it to untie
gently and silently the running string which alone held up his
breeches, so that on loosening it they at once fell down round his feet
like fetters; he then raised his shirt as well as he could and bared
his hind quarters, no slim ones. But, this accomplished, which he
fancied was all he had to do to get out of this terrible strait and
embarrassment, another still greater difficulty presented itself, for
it seemed to him impossible to relieve himself without making some
noise, and he ground his teeth and squeezed his shoulders together,
holding his breath as much as he could; but in spite of his precautions
he was unlucky enough after all to make a little noise, very different
from that which was causing him so much fear.
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Don Quixote, hearing it, said, “What noise is that, Sancho?”
“I don’t know, señor,” said he; “it must be something new, for
adventures and misadventures never begin with a trifle.” Once more he
tried his luck, and succeeded so well, that without any further noise
or disturbance he found himself relieved of the burden that had given
him so much discomfort. But as Don Quixote’s sense of smell was as
acute as his hearing, and as Sancho was so closely linked with him that
the fumes rose almost in a straight line, it could not be but that some
should reach his nose, and as soon as they did he came to its relief by
compressing it between his fingers, saying in a rather snuffing tone,
“Sancho, it strikes me thou art in great fear.”
“I am,” answered Sancho; “but how does your worship perceive it now
more than ever?”
“Because just now thou smellest stronger than ever, and not of
ambergris,” answered Don Quixote.
“Very likely,” said Sancho, “but that’s not my fault, but your
worship’s, for leading me about at unseasonable hours and at such
unwonted paces.”
“Then go back three or four, my friend,” said Don Quixote, all the time
with his fingers to his nose; “and for the future pay more attention to
thy person and to what thou owest to mine; for it is my great
familiarity with thee that has bred this contempt.”
“I’ll bet,” replied Sancho, “that your worship thinks I have done
something I ought not with my person.”
“It makes it worse to stir it, friend Sancho,” returned Don Quixote.
With this and other talk of the same sort master and man passed the
night, till Sancho, perceiving that daybreak was coming on apace, very
cautiously untied Rocinante and tied up his breeches. As soon as
Rocinante found himself free, though by nature he was not at all
mettlesome, he seemed to feel lively and began pawing—for as to
capering, begging his pardon, he knew not what it meant. Don Quixote,
then, observing that Rocinante could move, took it as a good sign and a
signal that he should attempt the dread adventure. By this time day had
fully broken and everything showed distinctly, and Don Quixote saw that
he was among some tall trees, chestnuts, which cast a very deep shade;
he perceived likewise that the sound of the strokes did not cease, but
could not discover what caused it, and so without any further delay he
let Rocinante feel the spur, and once more taking leave of Sancho, he
told him to wait for him there three days at most, as he had said
before, and if he should not have returned by that time, he might feel
sure it had been God’s will that he should end his days in that
perilous adventure. He again repeated the message and commission with
which he was to go on his behalf to his lady Dulcinea, and said he was
not to be uneasy as to the payment of his services, for before leaving
home he had made his will, in which he would find himself fully
recompensed in the matter of wages in due proportion to the time he had
served; but if God delivered him safe, sound, and unhurt out of that
danger, he might look upon the promised island as much more than
certain. Sancho began to weep afresh on again hearing the affecting
words of his good master, and resolved to stay with him until the final
issue and end of the business. From these tears and this honourable
resolve of Sancho Panza’s the author of this history infers that he
must have been of good birth and at least an old Christian; and the
feeling he displayed touched his but not so much as to make him show
any weakness; on the contrary, hiding what he felt as well as he could,
he began to move towards that quarter whence the sound of the water and
of the strokes seemed to come.
Sancho followed him on foot, leading by the halter, as his custom was,
his ass, his constant comrade in prosperity or adversity; and advancing
some distance through the shady chestnut trees they came upon a little
meadow at the foot of some high rocks, down which a mighty rush of
water flung itself. At the foot of the rocks were some rudely
constructed houses looking more like ruins than houses, from among
which came, they perceived, the din and clatter of blows, which still
continued without intermission. Rocinante took fright at the noise of
the water and of the blows, but quieting him Don Quixote advanced step
by step towards the houses, commending himself with all his heart to
his lady, imploring her support in that dread pass and enterprise, and
on the way commending himself to God, too, not to forget him. Sancho
who never quitted his side, stretched his neck as far as he could and
peered between the legs of Rocinante to see if he could now discover
what it was that caused him such fear and apprehension. They went it
might be a hundred paces farther, when on turning a corner the true
cause, beyond the possibility of any mistake, of that dread-sounding
and to them awe-inspiring noise that had kept them all the night in
such fear and perplexity, appeared plain and obvious; and it was (if,
reader, thou art not disgusted and disappointed) six fulling hammers
which by their alternate strokes made all the din.
When Don Quixote perceived what it was, he was struck dumb and rigid
from head to foot. Sancho glanced at him and saw him with his head bent
down upon his breast in manifest mortification; and Don Quixote glanced
at Sancho and saw him with his cheeks puffed out and his mouth full of
laughter, and evidently ready to explode with it, and in spite of his
vexation he could not help laughing at the sight of him; and when
Sancho saw his master begin he let go so heartily that he had to hold
his sides with both hands to keep himself from bursting with laughter.
Four times he stopped, and as many times did his laughter break out
afresh with the same violence as at first, whereat Don Quixote grew
furious, above all when he heard him say mockingly, “Thou must know,
friend Sancho, that of Heaven’s will I was born in this our iron age to
revive in it the golden or age of gold; I am he for whom are reserved
perils, mighty achievements, valiant deeds;” and here he went on
repeating the words that Don Quixote uttered the first time they heard
the awful strokes.
Don Quixote, then, seeing that Sancho was turning him into ridicule,
was so mortified and vexed that he lifted up his pike and smote him two
such blows that if, instead of catching them on his shoulders, he had
caught them on his head there would have been no wages to pay, unless
indeed to his heirs. Sancho seeing that he was getting an awkward
return in earnest for his jest, and fearing his master might carry it
still further, said to him very humbly, “Calm yourself, sir, for by God
I am only joking.”
“Well, then, if you are joking I am not,” replied Don Quixote. “Look
here, my lively gentleman, if these, instead of being fulling hammers,
had been some perilous adventure, have I not, think you, shown the
courage required for the attempt and achievement? Am I, perchance,
being, as I am, a gentleman, bound to know and distinguish sounds and
tell whether they come from fulling mills or not; and that, when
perhaps, as is the case, I have never in my life seen any as you have,
low boor as you are, that have been born and bred among them? But turn
me these six hammers into six giants, and bring them to beard me, one
by one or all together, and if I do not knock them head over heels,
then make what mockery you like of me.”
“No more of that, señor,” returned Sancho; “I own I went a little too
far with the joke. But tell me, your worship, now that peace is made
between us (and may God bring you out of all the adventures that may
befall you as safe and sound as he has brought you out of this one),
was it not a thing to laugh at, and is it not a good story, the great
fear we were in?—at least that I was in; for as to your worship I see
now that you neither know nor understand what either fear or dismay
is.”
“I do not deny,” said Don Quixote, “that what happened to us may be
worth laughing at, but it is not worth making a story about, for it is
not everyone that is shrewd enough to hit the right point of a thing.”
“At any rate,” said Sancho, “your worship knew how to hit the right
point with your pike, aiming at my head and hitting me on the
shoulders, thanks be to God and my own smartness in dodging it. But let
that pass; all will come out in the scouring; for I have heard say ‘he
loves thee well that makes thee weep;’ and moreover that it is the way
with great lords after any hard words they give a servant to give him a
pair of breeches; though I do not know what they give after blows,
unless it be that knights-errant after blows give islands, or kingdoms
on the mainland.”
“It may be on the dice,” said Don Quixote, “that all thou sayest will
come true; overlook the past, for thou art shrewd enough to know that
our first movements are not in our own control; and one thing for the
future bear in mind, that thou curb and restrain thy loquacity in my
company; for in all the books of chivalry that I have read, and they
are innumerable, I never met with a squire who talked so much to his
lord as thou dost to thine; and in fact I feel it to be a great fault
of thine and of mine: of thine, that thou hast so little respect for
me; of mine, that I do not make myself more respected. There was
Gandalin, the squire of Amadis of Gaul, that was Count of the Insula
Firme, and we read of him that he always addressed his lord with his
cap in his hand, his head bowed down and his body bent double, more
turquesco. And then, what shall we say of Gasabal, the squire of
Galaor, who was so silent that in order to indicate to us the greatness
of his marvellous taciturnity his name is only once mentioned in the
whole of that history, as long as it is truthful? From all I have said
thou wilt gather, Sancho, that there must be a difference between
master and man, between lord and lackey, between knight and squire: so
that from this day forward in our intercourse we must observe more
respect and take less liberties, for in whatever way I may be provoked
with you it will be bad for the pitcher. The favours and benefits that
I have promised you will come in due time, and if they do not your
wages at least will not be lost, as I have already told you.”
“All that your worship says is very well,” said Sancho, “but I should
like to know (in case the time of favours should not come, and it might
be necessary to fall back upon wages) how much did the squire of a
knight-errant get in those days, and did they agree by the month, or by
the day like bricklayers?”
“I do not believe,” replied Don Quixote, “that such squires were ever
on wages, but were dependent on favour; and if I have now mentioned
thine in the sealed will I have left at home, it was with a view to
what may happen; for as yet I know not how chivalry will turn out in
these wretched times of ours, and I do not wish my soul to suffer for
trifles in the other world; for I would have thee know, Sancho, that in
this there is no condition more hazardous than that of adventurers.”
“That is true,” said Sancho, “since the mere noise of the hammers of a
fulling mill can disturb and disquiet the heart of such a valiant
errant adventurer as your worship; but you may be sure I will not open
my lips henceforward to make light of anything of your worship’s, but
only to honour you as my master and natural lord.”
“By so doing,” replied Don Quixote, “shalt thou live long on the face
of the earth; for next to parents, masters are to be respected as
though they were parents.”
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CHAPTER XXI.
WHICH TREATS OF THE EXALTED ADVENTURE AND RICH PRIZE OF MAMBRINO’S
HELMET, TOGETHER WITH OTHER THINGS THAT HAPPENED TO OUR INVINCIBLE
KNIGHT
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It now began to rain a little, and Sancho was for going into the
fulling mills, but Don Quixote had taken such an abhorrence to them on
account of the late joke that he would not enter them on any account;
so turning aside to right they came upon another road, different from
that which they had taken the night before. Shortly afterwards Don
Quixote perceived a man on horseback who wore on his head something
that shone like gold, and the moment he saw him he turned to Sancho and
said:
“I think, Sancho, there is no proverb that is not true, all being
maxims drawn from experience itself, the mother of all the sciences,
especially that one that says, ‘Where one door shuts, another opens.’ I
say so because if last night fortune shut the door of the adventure we
were looking for against us, cheating us with the fulling mills, it now
opens wide another one for another better and more certain adventure,
and if I do not contrive to enter it, it will be my own fault, and I
cannot lay it to my ignorance of fulling mills, or the darkness of the
night. I say this because, if I mistake not, there comes towards us one
who wears on his head the helmet of Mambrino, concerning which I took
the oath thou rememberest.”
“Mind what you say, your worship, and still more what you do,” said
Sancho, “for I don’t want any more fulling mills to finish off fulling
and knocking our senses out.”
“The devil take thee, man,” said Don Quixote; “what has a helmet to do
with fulling mills?”
“I don’t know,” replied Sancho, “but, faith, if I might speak as I
used, perhaps I could give such reasons that your worship would see you
were mistaken in what you say.”
“How can I be mistaken in what I say, unbelieving traitor?” returned
Don Quixote; “tell me, seest thou not yonder knight coming towards us
on a dappled grey steed, who has upon his head a helmet of gold?”
“What I see and make out,” answered Sancho, “is only a man on a grey
ass like my own, who has something that shines on his head.”
“Well, that is the helmet of Mambrino,” said Don Quixote; “stand to one
side and leave me alone with him; thou shalt see how, without saying a
word, to save time, I shall bring this adventure to an issue and
possess myself of the helmet I have so longed for.”
“I will take care to stand aside,” said Sancho; “but God grant, I say
once more, that it may be marjoram and not fulling mills.”
“I have told thee, brother, on no account to mention those fulling
mills to me again,” said Don Quixote, “or I vow—and I say no more—I’ll
full the soul out of you.”
Sancho held his peace in dread lest his master should carry out the vow
he had hurled like a bowl at him.
The fact of the matter as regards the helmet, steed, and knight that
Don Quixote saw, was this. In that neighbourhood there were two
villages, one of them so small that it had neither apothecary’s shop
nor barber, which the other that was close to it had, so the barber of
the larger served the smaller, and in it there was a sick man who
required to be bled and another man who wanted to be shaved, and on
this errand the barber was going, carrying with him a brass basin; but
as luck would have it, as he was on the way it began to rain, and not
to spoil his hat, which probably was a new one, he put the basin on his
head, and being clean it glittered at half a league’s distance. He rode
upon a grey ass, as Sancho said, and this was what made it seem to Don
Quixote to be a dapple-grey steed and a knight and a golden helmet; for
everything he saw he made to fall in with his crazy chivalry and
ill-errant notions; and when he saw the poor knight draw near, without
entering into any parley with him, at Rocinante’s top speed he bore
down upon him with the pike pointed low, fully determined to run him
through and through, and as he reached him, without checking the fury
of his charge, he cried to him:
“Defend thyself, miserable being, or yield me of thine own accord that
which is so reasonably my due.”
The barber, who without any expectation or apprehension of it saw this
apparition coming down upon him, had no other way of saving himself
from the stroke of the lance but to let himself fall off his ass; and
no sooner had he touched the ground than he sprang up more nimbly than
a deer and sped away across the plain faster than the wind.
He left the basin on the ground, with which Don Quixote contented
himself, saying that the pagan had shown his discretion and imitated
the beaver, which finding itself pressed by the hunters bites and cuts
off with its teeth that for which, by its natural instinct, it knows it
is pursued.
He told Sancho to pick up the helmet, and he taking it in his hands
said:
“By God the basin is a good one, and worth a real of eight if it is
worth a maravedis,” and handed it to his master, who immediately put it
on his head, turning it round, now this way, now that, in search of
fitment, and not finding it he said, “Clearly the pagan to whose
measure this famous head-piece was first forged must have had a very
large head; but the worst of it is half of it is wanting.”
When Sancho heard him call the basin a headpiece he was unable to
restrain his laughter, but remembering his master’s wrath he checked
himself in the midst of it.
“What art thou laughing at, Sancho?” said Don Quixote.
“I am laughing,” said he, “to think of the great head the pagan must
have had who owned this helmet, for it looks exactly like a regular
barber’s basin.”
“Dost thou know what I suspect, Sancho?” said Don Quixote; “that this
wonderful piece of this enchanted helmet must by some strange accident
have come into the hands of someone who was unable to recognise or
realise its value, and who, not knowing what he did, and seeing it to
be of the purest gold, must have melted down one half for the sake of
what it might be worth, and of the other made this which is like a
barber’s basin as thou sayest; but be it as it may, to me who recognise
it, its transformation makes no difference, for I will set it to rights
at the first village where there is a blacksmith, and in such style
that that helmet the god of smithies forged for the god of battles
shall not surpass it or even come up to it; and in the meantime I will
wear it as well as I can, for something is better than nothing; all the
more as it will be quite enough to protect me from any chance blow of a
stone.”
“That is,” said Sancho, “if it is not shot with a sling as they were in
the battle of the two armies, when they signed the cross on your
worship’s grinders and smashed the flask with that blessed draught that
made me vomit my bowels up.”
“It does not grieve me much to have lost it,” said Don Quixote, “for
thou knowest, Sancho, that I have the receipt in my memory.”
“So have I,” answered Sancho, “but if ever I make it, or try it again
as long as I live, may this be my last hour; moreover, I have no
intention of putting myself in the way of wanting it, for I mean, with
all my five senses, to keep myself from being wounded or from wounding
anyone: as to being blanketed again I say nothing, for it is hard to
prevent mishaps of that sort, and if they come there is nothing for it
but to squeeze our shoulders together, hold our breath, shut our eyes,
and let ourselves go where luck and the blanket may send us.”
“Thou art a bad Christian, Sancho,” said Don Quixote on hearing this,
“for once an injury has been done thee thou never forgettest it: but
know that it is the part of noble and generous hearts not to attach
importance to trifles. What lame leg hast thou got by it, what broken
rib, what cracked head, that thou canst not forget that jest? For jest
and sport it was, properly regarded, and had I not seen it in that
light I would have returned and done more mischief in revenging thee
than the Greeks did for the rape of Helen, who, if she were alive now,
or if my Dulcinea had lived then, might depend upon it she would not be
so famous for her beauty as she is;” and here he heaved a sigh and sent
it aloft; and said Sancho, “Let it pass for a jest as it cannot be
revenged in earnest, but I know what sort of jest and earnest it was,
and I know it will never be rubbed out of my memory any more than off
my shoulders. But putting that aside, will your worship tell me what
are we to do with this dapple-grey steed that looks like a grey ass,
which that Martino that your worship overthrew has left deserted here?
for, from the way he took to his heels and bolted, he is not likely
ever to come back for it; and by my beard but the grey is a good one.”
“I have never been in the habit,” said Don Quixote, “of taking spoil of
those whom I vanquish, nor is it the practice of chivalry to take away
their horses and leave them to go on foot, unless indeed it be that the
victor have lost his own in the combat, in which case it is lawful to
take that of the vanquished as a thing won in lawful war; therefore,
Sancho, leave this horse, or ass, or whatever thou wilt have it to be;
for when its owner sees us gone hence he will come back for it.”
“God knows I should like to take it,” returned Sancho, “or at least to
change it for my own, which does not seem to me as good a one: verily
the laws of chivalry are strict, since they cannot be stretched to let
one ass be changed for another; I should like to know if I might at
least change trappings.”
“On that head I am not quite certain,” answered Don Quixote, “and the
matter being doubtful, pending better information, I say thou mayest
change them, if so be thou hast urgent need of them.”
“So urgent is it,” answered Sancho, “that if they were for my own
person I could not want them more;” and forthwith, fortified by this
licence, he effected the _mutatio capparum_, and rigged out his beast
to the ninety-nines and making quite another thing of it. This done,
they broke their fast on the remains of the spoils of war plundered
from the sumpter mule, and drank of the brook that flowed from the
fulling mills, without casting a look in that direction, in such
loathing did they hold them for the alarm they had caused them; and,
all anger and gloom removed, they mounted and, without taking any fixed
road (not to fix upon any being the proper thing for true
knights-errant), they set out, guided by Rocinante’s will, which
carried along with it that of his master, not to say that of the ass,
which always followed him wherever he led, lovingly and sociably;
nevertheless they returned to the high road, and pursued it at a
venture without any other aim.
As they went along, then, in this way Sancho said to his master,
“Señor, would your worship give me leave to speak a little to you? For
since you laid that hard injunction of silence on me several things
have gone to rot in my stomach, and I have now just one on the tip of
my tongue that I don’t want to be spoiled.”
“Say, on, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “and be brief in thy discourse,
for there is no pleasure in one that is long.”
“Well then, señor,” returned Sancho, “I say that for some days past I
have been considering how little is got or gained by going in search of
these adventures that your worship seeks in these wilds and
cross-roads, where, even if the most perilous are victoriously
achieved, there is no one to see or know of them, and so they must be
left untold for ever, to the loss of your worship’s object and the
credit they deserve; therefore it seems to me it would be better
(saving your worship’s better judgment) if we were to go and serve some
emperor or other great prince who may have some war on hand, in whose
service your worship may prove the worth of your person, your great
might, and greater understanding, on perceiving which the lord in whose
service we may be will perforce have to reward us, each according to
his merits; and there you will not be at a loss for someone to set down
your achievements in writing so as to preserve their memory for ever.
Of my own I say nothing, as they will not go beyond squirely limits,
though I make bold to say that, if it be the practice in chivalry to
write the achievements of squires, I think mine must not be left out.”
“Thou speakest not amiss, Sancho,” answered Don Quixote, “but before
that point is reached it is requisite to roam the world, as it were on
probation, seeking adventures, in order that, by achieving some, name
and fame may be acquired, such that when he betakes himself to the
court of some great monarch the knight may be already known by his
deeds, and that the boys, the instant they see him enter the gate of
the city, may all follow him and surround him, crying, ‘This is the
Knight of the Sun’—or the Serpent, or any other title under which he
may have achieved great deeds. ‘This,’ they will say, ‘is he who
vanquished in single combat the gigantic Brocabruno of mighty strength;
he who delivered the great Mameluke of Persia out of the long
enchantment under which he had been for almost nine hundred years.’ So
from one to another they will go proclaiming his achievements; and
presently at the tumult of the boys and the others the king of that
kingdom will appear at the windows of his royal palace, and as soon as
he beholds the knight, recognising him by his arms and the device on
his shield, he will as a matter of course say, ‘What ho! Forth all ye,
the knights of my court, to receive the flower of chivalry who cometh
hither!’ At which command all will issue forth, and he himself,
advancing half-way down the stairs, will embrace him closely, and
salute him, kissing him on the cheek, and will then lead him to the
queen’s chamber, where the knight will find her with the princess her
daughter, who will be one of the most beautiful and accomplished
damsels that could with the utmost pains be discovered anywhere in the
known world. Straightway it will come to pass that she will fix her
eyes upon the knight and he his upon her, and each will seem to the
other something more divine than human, and, without knowing how or why
they will be taken and entangled in the inextricable toils of love, and
sorely distressed in their hearts not to see any way of making their
pains and sufferings known by speech. Thence they will lead him, no
doubt, to some richly adorned chamber of the palace, where, having
removed his armour, they will bring him a rich mantle of scarlet
wherewith to robe himself, and if he looked noble in his armour he will
look still more so in a doublet. When night comes he will sup with the
king, queen, and princess; and all the time he will never take his eyes
off her, stealing stealthy glances, unnoticed by those present, and she
will do the same, and with equal cautiousness, being, as I have said, a
damsel of great discretion. The tables being removed, suddenly through
the door of the hall there will enter a hideous and diminutive dwarf
followed by a fair dame, between two giants, who comes with a certain
adventure, the work of an ancient sage; and he who shall achieve it
shall be deemed the best knight in the world.
“The king will then command all those present to essay it, and none
will bring it to an end and conclusion save the stranger knight, to the
great enhancement of his fame, whereat the princess will be overjoyed
and will esteem herself happy and fortunate in having fixed and placed
her thoughts so high. And the best of it is that this king, or prince,
or whatever he is, is engaged in a very bitter war with another as
powerful as himself, and the stranger knight, after having been some
days at his court, requests leave from him to go and serve him in the
said war. The king will grant it very readily, and the knight will
courteously kiss his hands for the favour done to him; and that night
he will take leave of his lady the princess at the grating of the
chamber where she sleeps, which looks upon a garden, and at which he
has already many times conversed with her, the go-between and
confidante in the matter being a damsel much trusted by the princess.
He will sigh, she will swoon, the damsel will fetch water, much
distressed because morning approaches, and for the honour of her lady
he would not that they were discovered; at last the princess will come
to herself and will present her white hands through the grating to the
knight, who will kiss them a thousand and a thousand times, bathing
them with his tears. It will be arranged between them how they are to
inform each other of their good or evil fortunes, and the princess will
entreat him to make his absence as short as possible, which he will
promise to do with many oaths; once more he kisses her hands, and takes
his leave in such grief that he is well-nigh ready to die. He betakes
him thence to his chamber, flings himself on his bed, cannot sleep for
sorrow at parting, rises early in the morning, goes to take leave of
the king, queen, and princess, and, as he takes his leave of the pair,
it is told him that the princess is indisposed and cannot receive a
visit; the knight thinks it is from grief at his departure, his heart
is pierced, and he is hardly able to keep from showing his pain. The
confidante is present, observes all, goes to tell her mistress, who
listens with tears and says that one of her greatest distresses is not
knowing who this knight is, and whether he is of kingly lineage or not;
the damsel assures her that so much courtesy, gentleness, and gallantry
of bearing as her knight possesses could not exist in any save one who
was royal and illustrious; her anxiety is thus relieved, and she
strives to be of good cheer lest she should excite suspicion in her
parents, and at the end of two days she appears in public. Meanwhile
the knight has taken his departure; he fights in the war, conquers the
king’s enemy, wins many cities, triumphs in many battles, returns to
the court, sees his lady where he was wont to see her, and it is agreed
that he shall demand her in marriage of her parents as the reward of
his services; the king is unwilling to give her, as he knows not who he
is, but nevertheless, whether carried off or in whatever other way it
may be, the princess comes to be his bride, and her father comes to
regard it as very good fortune; for it so happens that this knight is
proved to be the son of a valiant king of some kingdom, I know not
what, for I fancy it is not likely to be on the map. The father dies,
the princess inherits, and in two words the knight becomes king. And
here comes in at once the bestowal of rewards upon his squire and all
who have aided him in rising to so exalted a rank. He marries his
squire to a damsel of the princess’s, who will be, no doubt, the one
who was confidante in their amour, and is daughter of a very great
duke.”
“That’s what I want, and no mistake about it!” said Sancho. “That’s
what I’m waiting for; for all this, word for word, is in store for your
worship under the title of the Knight of the Rueful Countenance.”
“Thou needst not doubt it, Sancho,” replied Don Quixote, “for in the
same manner, and by the same steps as I have described here,
knights-errant rise and have risen to be kings and emperors; all we
want now is to find out what king, Christian or pagan, is at war and
has a beautiful daughter; but there will be time enough to think of
that, for, as I have told thee, fame must be won in other quarters
before repairing to the court. There is another thing, too, that is
wanting; for supposing we find a king who is at war and has a beautiful
daughter, and that I have won incredible fame throughout the universe,
I know not how it can be made out that I am of royal lineage, or even
second cousin to an emperor; for the king will not be willing to give
me his daughter in marriage unless he is first thoroughly satisfied on
this point, however much my famous deeds may deserve it; so that by
this deficiency I fear I shall lose what my arm has fairly earned. True
it is I am a gentleman of known house, of estate and property, and
entitled to the five hundred sueldos mulet; and it may be that the sage
who shall write my history will so clear up my ancestry and pedigree
that I may find myself fifth or sixth in descent from a king; for I
would have thee know, Sancho, that there are two kinds of lineages in
the world; some there be tracing and deriving their descent from kings
and princes, whom time has reduced little by little until they end in a
point like a pyramid upside down; and others who spring from the common
herd and go on rising step by step until they come to be great lords;
so that the difference is that the one were what they no longer are,
and the others are what they formerly were not. And I may be of such
that after investigation my origin may prove great and famous, with
which the king, my father-in-law that is to be, ought to be satisfied;
and should he not be, the princess will so love me that even though she
well knew me to be the son of a water-carrier, she will take me for her
lord and husband in spite of her father; if not, then it comes to
seizing her and carrying her off where I please; for time or death will
put an end to the wrath of her parents.”
“It comes to this, too,” said Sancho, “what some naughty people say,
‘Never ask as a favour what thou canst take by force;’ though it would
fit better to say, ‘A clear escape is better than good men’s prayers.’
I say so because if my lord the king, your worship’s father-in-law,
will not condescend to give you my lady the princess, there is nothing
for it but, as your worship says, to seize her and transport her. But
the mischief is that until peace is made and you come into the peaceful
enjoyment of your kingdom, the poor squire is famishing as far as
rewards go, unless it be that the confidante damsel that is to be his
wife comes with the princess, and that with her he tides over his bad
luck until Heaven otherwise orders things; for his master, I suppose,
may as well give her to him at once for a lawful wife.”
“Nobody can object to that,” said Don Quixote.
“Then since that may be,” said Sancho, “there is nothing for it but to
commend ourselves to God, and let fortune take what course it will.”
“God guide it according to my wishes and thy wants,” said Don Quixote,
“and mean be he who thinks himself mean.”
“In God’s name let him be so,” said Sancho: “I am an old Christian, and
to fit me for a count that’s enough.”
“And more than enough for thee,” said Don Quixote; “and even wert thou
not, it would make no difference, because I being the king can easily
give thee nobility without purchase or service rendered by thee, for
when I make thee a count, then thou art at once a gentleman; and they
may say what they will, but by my faith they will have to call thee
‘your lordship,’ whether they like it or not.”
“Not a doubt of it; and I’ll know how to support the tittle,” said
Sancho.
“Title thou shouldst say, not tittle,” said his master.
“So be it,” answered Sancho. “I say I will know how to behave, for once
in my life I was beadle of a brotherhood, and the beadle’s gown sat so
well on me that all said I looked as if I was to be steward of the same
brotherhood. What will it be, then, when I put a duke’s robe on my
back, or dress myself in gold and pearls like a count? I believe
they’ll come a hundred leagues to see me.”
“Thou wilt look well,” said Don Quixote, “but thou must shave thy beard
often, for thou hast it so thick and rough and unkempt, that if thou
dost not shave it every second day at least, they will see what thou
art at the distance of a musket shot.”
“What more will it be,” said Sancho, “than having a barber, and keeping
him at wages in the house? and even if it be necessary, I will make him
go behind me like a nobleman’s equerry.”
“Why, how dost thou know that noblemen have equerries behind them?”
asked Don Quixote.
“I will tell you,” answered Sancho. “Years ago I was for a month at the
capital and there I saw taking the air a very small gentleman who they
said was a very great man, and a man following him on horseback in
every turn he took, just as if he was his tail. I asked why this man
did not join the other man, instead of always going behind him; they
answered me that he was his equerry, and that it was the custom with
nobles to have such persons behind them, and ever since then I know it,
for I have never forgotten it.”
“Thou art right,” said Don Quixote, “and in the same way thou mayest
carry thy barber with thee, for customs did not come into use all
together, nor were they all invented at once, and thou mayest be the
first count to have a barber to follow him; and, indeed, shaving one’s
beard is a greater trust than saddling one’s horse.”
“Let the barber business be my look-out,” said Sancho; “and your
worship’s be it to strive to become a king, and make me a count.”
“So it shall be,” answered Don Quixote, and raising his eyes he saw
what will be told in the following chapter.
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CHAPTER XXII.
OF THE FREEDOM DON QUIXOTE CONFERRED ON SEVERAL UNFORTUNATES WHO
AGAINST THEIR WILL WERE BEING CARRIED WHERE THEY HAD NO WISH TO GO
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Cid Hamete Benengeli, the Arab and Manchegan author, relates in this
most grave, high-sounding, minute, delightful, and original history
that after the discussion between the famous Don Quixote of La Mancha
and his squire Sancho Panza which is set down at the end of chapter
twenty-one, Don Quixote raised his eyes and saw coming along the road
he was following some dozen men on foot strung together by the neck,
like beads, on a great iron chain, and all with manacles on their
hands. With them there came also two men on horseback and two on foot;
those on horseback with wheel-lock muskets, those on foot with javelins
and swords, and as soon as Sancho saw them he said:
“That is a chain of galley slaves, on the way to the galleys by force
of the king’s orders.”
“How by force?” asked Don Quixote; “is it possible that the king uses
force against anyone?”
“I do not say that,” answered Sancho, “but that these are people
condemned for their crimes to serve by force in the king’s galleys.”
“In fact,” replied Don Quixote, “however it may be, these people are
going where they are taking them by force, and not of their own will.”
“Just so,” said Sancho.
“Then if so,” said Don Quixote, “here is a case for the exercise of my
office, to put down force and to succour and help the wretched.”
“Recollect, your worship,” said Sancho, “Justice, which is the king
himself, is not using force or doing wrong to such persons, but
punishing them for their crimes.”
The chain of galley slaves had by this time come up, and Don Quixote in
very courteous language asked those who were in custody of it to be
good enough to tell him the reason or reasons for which they were
conducting these people in this manner. One of the guards on horseback
answered that they were galley slaves belonging to his majesty, that
they were going to the galleys, and that was all that was to be said
and all he had any business to know.
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“Nevertheless,” replied Don Quixote, “I should like to know from each
of them separately the reason of his misfortune;” to this he added more
to the same effect to induce them to tell him what he wanted so civilly
that the other mounted guard said to him:
“Though we have here the register and certificate of the sentence of
every one of these wretches, this is no time to take them out or read
them; come and ask themselves; they can tell if they choose, and they
will, for these fellows take a pleasure in doing and talking about
rascalities.”
With this permission, which Don Quixote would have taken even had they
not granted it, he approached the chain and asked the first for what
offences he was now in such a sorry case.
He made answer that it was for being a lover.
“For that only?” replied Don Quixote; “why, if for being lovers they
send people to the galleys I might have been rowing in them long ago.”
“The love is not the sort your worship is thinking of,” said the galley
slave; “mine was that I loved a washerwoman’s basket of clean linen so
well, and held it so close in my embrace, that if the arm of the law
had not forced it from me, I should never have let it go of my own will
to this moment; I was caught in the act, there was no occasion for
torture, the case was settled, they treated me to a hundred lashes on
the back, and three years of gurapas besides, and that was the end of
it.”
“What are gurapas?” asked Don Quixote.
“Gurapas are galleys,” answered the galley slave, who was a young man
of about four-and-twenty, and said he was a native of Piedrahita.
Don Quixote asked the same question of the second, who made no reply,
so downcast and melancholy was he; but the first answered for him, and
said, “He, sir, goes as a canary, I mean as a musician and a singer.”
“What!” said Don Quixote, “for being musicians and singers are people
sent to the galleys too?”
“Yes, sir,” answered the galley slave, “for there is nothing worse than
singing under suffering.”
“On the contrary, I have heard say,” said Don Quixote, “that he who
sings scares away his woes.”
“Here it is the reverse,” said the galley slave; “for he who sings once
weeps all his life.”
“I do not understand it,” said Don Quixote; but one of the guards said
to him, “Sir, to sing under suffering means with the _non sancta_
fraternity to confess under torture; they put this sinner to the
torture and he confessed his crime, which was being a cuatrero, that is
a cattle-stealer, and on his confession they sentenced him to six years
in the galleys, besides two hundred lashes that he has already had on
the back; and he is always dejected and downcast because the other
thieves that were left behind and that march here ill-treat, and snub,
and jeer, and despise him for confessing and not having spirit enough
to say nay; for, say they, ‘nay’ has no more letters in it than ‘yea,’
and a culprit is well off when life or death with him depends on his
own tongue and not on that of witnesses or evidence; and to my thinking
they are not very far out.”
“And I think so too,” answered Don Quixote; then passing on to the
third he asked him what he had asked the others, and the man answered
very readily and unconcernedly, “I am going for five years to their
ladyships the gurapas for the want of ten ducats.”
“I will give twenty with pleasure to get you out of that trouble,” said
Don Quixote.
“That,” said the galley slave, “is like a man having money at sea when
he is dying of hunger and has no way of buying what he wants; I say so
because if at the right time I had had those twenty ducats that your
worship now offers me, I would have greased the notary’s pen and
freshened up the attorney’s wit with them, so that to-day I should be
in the middle of the plaza of the Zocodover at Toledo, and not on this
road coupled like a greyhound. But God is great; patience—there, that’s
enough of it.”
Don Quixote passed on to the fourth, a man of venerable aspect with a
white beard falling below his breast, who on hearing himself asked the
reason of his being there began to weep without answering a word, but
the fifth acted as his tongue and said, “This worthy man is going to
the galleys for four years, after having gone the rounds in ceremony
and on horseback.”
“That means,” said Sancho Panza, “as I take it, to have been exposed to
shame in public.”
“Just so,” replied the galley slave, “and the offence for which they
gave him that punishment was having been an ear-broker, nay
body-broker; I mean, in short, that this gentleman goes as a pimp, and
for having besides a certain touch of the sorcerer about him.”
“If that touch had not been thrown in,” said Don Quixote, “he would not
deserve, for mere pimping, to row in the galleys, but rather to command
and be admiral of them; for the office of pimp is no ordinary one,
being the office of persons of discretion, one very necessary in a
well-ordered state, and only to be exercised by persons of good birth;
nay, there ought to be an inspector and overseer of them, as in other
offices, and recognised number, as with the brokers on change; in this
way many of the evils would be avoided which are caused by this office
and calling being in the hands of stupid and ignorant people, such as
women more or less silly, and pages and jesters of little standing and
experience, who on the most urgent occasions, and when ingenuity of
contrivance is needed, let the crumbs freeze on the way to their
mouths, and know not which is their right hand. I should like to go
farther, and give reasons to show that it is advisable to choose those
who are to hold so necessary an office in the state, but this is not
the fit place for it; some day I will expound the matter to someone
able to see to and rectify it; all I say now is, that the additional
fact of his being a sorcerer has removed the sorrow it gave me to see
these white hairs and this venerable countenance in so painful a
position on account of his being a pimp; though I know well there are
no sorceries in the world that can move or compel the will as some
simple folk fancy, for our will is free, nor is there herb or charm
that can force it. All that certain silly women and quacks do is to
turn men mad with potions and poisons, pretending that they have power
to cause love, for, as I say, it is an impossibility to compel the
will.”
“It is true,” said the good old man, “and indeed, sir, as far as the
charge of sorcery goes I was not guilty; as to that of being a pimp I
cannot deny it; but I never thought I was doing any harm by it, for my
only object was that all the world should enjoy itself and live in
peace and quiet, without quarrels or troubles; but my good intentions
were unavailing to save me from going where I never expect to come back
from, with this weight of years upon me and a urinary ailment that
never gives me a moment’s ease;” and again he fell to weeping as
before, and such compassion did Sancho feel for him that he took out a
real of four from his bosom and gave it to him in alms.
Don Quixote went on and asked another what his crime was, and the man
answered with no less but rather much more sprightliness than the last
one.
“I am here because I carried the joke too far with a couple of cousins
of mine, and with a couple of other cousins who were none of mine; in
short, I carried the joke so far with them all that it ended in such a
complicated increase of kindred that no accountant could make it clear:
it was all proved against me, I got no favour, I had no money, I was
near having my neck stretched, they sentenced me to the galleys for six
years, I accepted my fate, it is the punishment of my fault; I am a
young man; let life only last, and with that all will come right. If
you, sir, have anything wherewith to help the poor, God will repay it
to you in heaven, and we on earth will take care in our petitions to
him to pray for the life and health of your worship, that they may be
as long and as good as your amiable appearance deserves.”
This one was in the dress of a student, and one of the guards said he
was a great talker and a very elegant Latin scholar.
Behind all these there came a man of thirty, a very personable fellow,
except that when he looked, his eyes turned in a little one towards the
other. He was bound differently from the rest, for he had to his leg a
chain so long that it was wound all round his body, and two rings on
his neck, one attached to the chain, the other to what they call a
“keep-friend” or “friend’s foot,” from which hung two irons reaching to
his waist with two manacles fixed to them in which his hands were
secured by a big padlock, so that he could neither raise his hands to
his mouth nor lower his head to his hands. Don Quixote asked why this
man carried so many more chains than the others. The guard replied that
it was because he alone had committed more crimes than all the rest put
together, and was so daring and such a villain, that though they
marched him in that fashion they did not feel sure of him, but were in
dread of his making his escape.
“What crimes can he have committed,” said Don Quixote, “if they have
not deserved a heavier punishment than being sent to the galleys?”
“He goes for ten years,” replied the guard, “which is the same thing as
civil death, and all that need be said is that this good fellow is the
famous Gines de Pasamonte, otherwise called Ginesillo de Parapilla.”
“Gently, señor commissary,” said the galley slave at this, “let us have
no fixing of names or surnames; my name is Gines, not Ginesillo, and my
family name is Pasamonte, not Parapilla as you say; let each one mind
his own business, and he will be doing enough.”
“Speak with less impertinence, master thief of extra measure,” replied
the commissary, “if you don’t want me to make you hold your tongue in
spite of your teeth.”
“It is easy to see,” returned the galley slave, “that man goes as God
pleases, but someone shall know some day whether I am called Ginesillo
de Parapilla or not.”
“Don’t they call you so, you liar?” said the guard.
“They do,” returned Gines, “but I will make them give over calling me
so, or I will be shaved, where, I only say behind my teeth. If you,
sir, have anything to give us, give it to us at once, and God speed
you, for you are becoming tiresome with all this inquisitiveness about
the lives of others; if you want to know about mine, let me tell you I
am Gines de Pasamonte, whose life is written by these fingers.”
“He says true,” said the commissary, “for he has himself written his
story as grand as you please, and has left the book in the prison in
pawn for two hundred reals.”
“And I mean to take it out of pawn,” said Gines, “though it were in for
two hundred ducats.”
“Is it so good?” said Don Quixote.
“So good is it,” replied Gines, “that a fig for ‘Lazarillo de Tormes,’
and all of that kind that have been written, or shall be written
compared with it: all I will say about it is that it deals with facts,
and facts so neat and diverting that no lies could match them.”
“And how is the book entitled?” asked Don Quixote.
“The ‘Life of Gines de Pasamonte,’” replied the subject of it.
“And is it finished?” asked Don Quixote.
“How can it be finished,” said the other, “when my life is not yet
finished? All that is written is from my birth down to the point when
they sent me to the galleys this last time.”
“Then you have been there before?” said Don Quixote.
“In the service of God and the king I have been there for four years
before now, and I know by this time what the biscuit and courbash are
like,” replied Gines; “and it is no great grievance to me to go back to
them, for there I shall have time to finish my book; I have still many
things left to say, and in the galleys of Spain there is more than
enough leisure; though I do not want much for what I have to write, for
I have it by heart.”
“You seem a clever fellow,” said Don Quixote.
“And an unfortunate one,” replied Gines, “for misfortune always
persecutes good wit.”
“It persecutes rogues,” said the commissary.
“I told you already to go gently, master commissary,” said Pasamonte;
“their lordships yonder never gave you that staff to ill-treat us
wretches here, but to conduct and take us where his majesty orders you;
if not, by the life of—never mind—; it may be that some day the stains
made in the inn will come out in the scouring; let everyone hold his
tongue and behave well and speak better; and now let us march on, for
we have had quite enough of this entertainment.”
The commissary lifted his staff to strike Pasamonte in return for his
threats, but Don Quixote came between them, and begged him not to
ill-use him, as it was not too much to allow one who had his hands tied
to have his tongue a trifle free; and turning to the whole chain of
them he said:
“From all you have told me, dear brethren, I make out clearly that
though they have punished you for your faults, the punishments you are
about to endure do not give you much pleasure, and that you go to them
very much against the grain and against your will, and that perhaps
this one’s want of courage under torture, that one’s want of money, the
other’s want of advocacy, and lastly the perverted judgment of the
judge may have been the cause of your ruin and of your failure to
obtain the justice you had on your side. All which presents itself now
to my mind, urging, persuading, and even compelling me to demonstrate
in your case the purpose for which Heaven sent me into the world and
caused me to make profession of the order of chivalry to which I
belong, and the vow I took therein to give aid to those in need and
under the oppression of the strong. But as I know that it is a mark of
prudence not to do by foul means what may be done by fair, I will ask
these gentlemen, the guards and commissary, to be so good as to release
you and let you go in peace, as there will be no lack of others to
serve the king under more favourable circumstances; for it seems to me
a hard case to make slaves of those whom God and nature have made free.
Moreover, sirs of the guard,” added Don Quixote, “these poor fellows
have done nothing to you; let each answer for his own sins yonder;
there is a God in Heaven who will not forget to punish the wicked or
reward the good; and it is not fitting that honest men should be the
instruments of punishment to others, they being therein no way
concerned. This request I make thus gently and quietly, that, if you
comply with it, I may have reason for thanking you; and, if you will
not voluntarily, this lance and sword together with the might of my arm
shall compel you to comply with it by force.”
“Nice nonsense!” said the commissary; “a fine piece of pleasantry he
has come out with at last! He wants us to let the king’s prisoners go,
as if we had any authority to release them, or he to order us to do so!
Go your way, sir, and good luck to you; put that basin straight that
you’ve got on your head, and don’t go looking for three feet on a cat.”
“’Tis you that are the cat, rat, and rascal,” replied Don Quixote, and
acting on the word he fell upon him so suddenly that without giving him
time to defend himself he brought him to the ground sorely wounded with
a lance-thrust; and lucky it was for him that it was the one that had
the musket. The other guards stood thunderstruck and amazed at this
unexpected event, but recovering presence of mind, those on horseback
seized their swords, and those on foot their javelins, and attacked Don
Quixote, who was waiting for them with great calmness; and no doubt it
would have gone badly with him if the galley slaves, seeing the chance
before them of liberating themselves, had not effected it by contriving
to break the chain on which they were strung. Such was the confusion,
that the guards, now rushing at the galley slaves who were breaking
loose, now to attack Don Quixote who was waiting for them, did nothing
at all that was of any use. Sancho, on his part, gave a helping hand to
release Gines de Pasamonte, who was the first to leap forth upon the
plain free and unfettered, and who, attacking the prostrate commissary,
took from him his sword and the musket, with which, aiming at one and
levelling at another, he, without ever discharging it, drove every one
of the guards off the field, for they took to flight, as well to escape
Pasamonte’s musket, as the showers of stones the now released galley
slaves were raining upon them. Sancho was greatly grieved at the
affair, because he anticipated that those who had fled would report the
matter to the Holy Brotherhood, who at the summons of the alarm-bell
would at once sally forth in quest of the offenders; and he said so to
his master, and entreated him to leave the place at once, and go into
hiding in the sierra that was close by.
“That is all very well,” said Don Quixote, “but I know what must be
done now;” and calling together all the galley slaves, who were now
running riot, and had stripped the commissary to the skin, he collected
them round him to hear what he had to say, and addressed them as
follows: “To be grateful for benefits received is the part of persons
of good birth, and one of the sins most offensive to God is
ingratitude; I say so because, sirs, ye have already seen by manifest
proof the benefit ye have received of me; in return for which I desire,
and it is my good pleasure that, laden with that chain which I have
taken off your necks, ye at once set out and proceed to the city of El
Toboso, and there present yourselves before the lady Dulcinea del
Toboso, and say to her that her knight, he of the Rueful Countenance,
sends to commend himself to her; and that ye recount to her in full
detail all the particulars of this notable adventure, up to the
recovery of your longed-for liberty; and this done ye may go where ye
will, and good fortune attend you.”
Gines de Pasamonte made answer for all, saying, “That which you, sir,
our deliverer, demand of us, is of all impossibilities the most
impossible to comply with, because we cannot go together along the
roads, but only singly and separate, and each one his own way,
endeavouring to hide ourselves in the bowels of the earth to escape the
Holy Brotherhood, which, no doubt, will come out in search of us. What
your worship may do, and fairly do, is to change this service and
tribute as regards the lady Dulcinea del Toboso for a certain quantity
of ave-marias and credos which we will say for your worship’s
intention, and this is a condition that can be complied with by night
as by day, running or resting, in peace or in war; but to imagine that
we are going now to return to the flesh-pots of Egypt, I mean to take
up our chain and set out for El Toboso, is to imagine that it is now
night, though it is not yet ten in the morning, and to ask this of us
is like asking pears of the elm tree.”
“Then by all that’s good,” said Don Quixote (now stirred to wrath),
“Don son of a bitch, Don Ginesillo de Paropillo, or whatever your name
is, you will have to go yourself alone, with your tail between your
legs and the whole chain on your back.”
Pasamonte, who was anything but meek (being by this time thoroughly
convinced that Don Quixote was not quite right in his head as he had
committed such a vagary as to set them free), finding himself abused in
this fashion, gave the wink to his companions, and falling back they
began to shower stones on Don Quixote at such a rate that he was quite
unable to protect himself with his buckler, and poor Rocinante no more
heeded the spur than if he had been made of brass. Sancho planted
himself behind his ass, and with him sheltered himself from the
hailstorm that poured on both of them. Don Quixote was unable to shield
himself so well but that more pebbles than I could count struck him
full on the body with such force that they brought him to the ground;
and the instant he fell the student pounced upon him, snatched the
basin from his head, and with it struck three or four blows on his
shoulders, and as many more on the ground, knocking it almost to
pieces. They then stripped him of a jacket that he wore over his
armour, and they would have stripped off his stockings if his greaves
had not prevented them. From Sancho they took his coat, leaving him in
his shirt-sleeves; and dividing among themselves the remaining spoils
of the battle, they went each one his own way, more solicitous about
keeping clear of the Holy Brotherhood they dreaded, than about
burdening themselves with the chain, or going to present themselves
before the lady Dulcinea del Toboso. The ass and Rocinante, Sancho and
Don Quixote, were all that were left upon the spot; the ass with
drooping head, serious, shaking his ears from time to time as if he
thought the storm of stones that assailed them was not yet over;
Rocinante stretched beside his master, for he too had been brought to
the ground by a stone; Sancho stripped, and trembling with fear of the
Holy Brotherhood; and Don Quixote fuming to find himself so served by
the very persons for whom he had done so much.
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CHAPTER XXIII.
OF WHAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE IN THE SIERRA MORENA, WHICH WAS ONE OF THE
RAREST ADVENTURES RELATED IN THIS VERACIOUS HISTORY
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Seeing himself served in this way, Don Quixote said to his squire, “I
have always heard it said, Sancho, that to do good to boors is to throw
water into the sea. If I had believed thy words, I should have avoided
this trouble; but it is done now, it is only to have patience and take
warning for the future.”
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“Your worship will take warning as much as I am a Turk,” returned
Sancho; “but, as you say this mischief might have been avoided if you
had believed me, believe me now, and a still greater one will be
avoided; for I tell you chivalry is of no account with the Holy
Brotherhood, and they don’t care two maravedis for all the
knights-errant in the world; and I can tell you I fancy I hear their
arrows whistling past my ears this minute.”
“Thou art a coward by nature, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “but lest thou
shouldst say I am obstinate, and that I never do as thou dost advise,
this once I will take thy advice, and withdraw out of reach of that
fury thou so dreadest; but it must be on one condition, that never, in
life or in death, thou art to say to anyone that I retired or withdrew
from this danger out of fear, but only in compliance with thy
entreaties; for if thou sayest otherwise thou wilt lie therein, and
from this time to that, and from that to this, I give thee lie, and say
thou liest and wilt lie every time thou thinkest or sayest it; and
answer me not again; for at the mere thought that I am withdrawing or
retiring from any danger, above all from this, which does seem to carry
some little shadow of fear with it, I am ready to take my stand here
and await alone, not only that Holy Brotherhood you talk of and dread,
but the brothers of the twelve tribes of Israel, and the Seven
Maccabees, and Castor and Pollux, and all the brothers and brotherhoods
in the world.”
“Señor,” replied Sancho, “to retire is not to flee, and there is no
wisdom in waiting when danger outweighs hope, and it is the part of
wise men to preserve themselves to-day for to-morrow, and not risk all
in one day; and let me tell you, though I am a clown and a boor, I have
got some notion of what they call safe conduct; so repent not of having
taken my advice, but mount Rocinante if you can, and if not I will help
you; and follow me, for my mother-wit tells me we have more need of
legs than hands just now.”
Don Quixote mounted without replying, and, Sancho leading the way on
his ass, they entered the side of the Sierra Morena, which was close
by, as it was Sancho’s design to cross it entirely and come out again
at El Viso or Almodóvar del Campo, and hide for some days among its
crags so as to escape the search of the Brotherhood should they come to
look for them. He was encouraged in this by perceiving that the stock
of provisions carried by the ass had come safe out of the fray with the
galley slaves, a circumstance that he regarded as a miracle, seeing how
they pillaged and ransacked.
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That night they reached the very heart of the Sierra Morena, where it
seemed prudent to Sancho to pass the night and even some days, at least
as many as the stores he carried might last, and so they encamped
between two rocks and among some cork trees; but fatal destiny, which,
according to the opinion of those who have not the light of the true
faith, directs, arranges, and settles everything in its own way, so
ordered it that Gines de Pasamonte, the famous knave and thief who by
the virtue and madness of Don Quixote had been released from the chain,
driven by fear of the Holy Brotherhood, which he had good reason to
dread, resolved to take hiding in the mountains; and his fate and fear
led him to the same spot to which Don Quixote and Sancho Panza had been
led by theirs, just in time to recognise them and leave them to fall
asleep: and as the wicked are always ungrateful, and necessity leads to
evildoing, and immediate advantage overcomes all considerations of the
future, Gines, who was neither grateful nor well-principled, made up
his mind to steal Sancho Panza’s ass, not troubling himself about
Rocinante, as being a prize that was no good either to pledge or sell.
While Sancho slept he stole his ass, and before day dawned he was far
out of reach.
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Aurora made her appearance bringing gladness to the earth but sadness
to Sancho Panza, for he found that his Dapple was missing, and seeing
himself bereft of him he began the saddest and most doleful lament in
the world, so loud that Don Quixote awoke at his exclamations and heard
him saying, “O son of my bowels, born in my very house, my children’s
plaything, my wife’s joy, the envy of my neighbours, relief of my
burdens, and lastly, half supporter of myself, for with the
six-and-twenty maravedis thou didst earn me daily I met half my
charges.”
Don Quixote, when he heard the lament and learned the cause, consoled
Sancho with the best arguments he could, entreating him to be patient,
and promising to give him a letter of exchange ordering three out of
five ass-colts that he had at home to be given to him. Sancho took
comfort at this, dried his tears, suppressed his sobs, and returned
thanks for the kindness shown him by Don Quixote. He on his part was
rejoiced to the heart on entering the mountains, as they seemed to him
to be just the place for the adventures he was in quest of. They
brought back to his memory the marvellous adventures that had befallen
knights-errant in like solitudes and wilds, and he went along
reflecting on these things, so absorbed and carried away by them that
he had no thought for anything else.
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Nor had Sancho any other care (now that he fancied he was travelling in
a safe quarter) than to satisfy his appetite with such remains as were
left of the clerical spoils, and so he marched behind his master laden
with what Dapple used to carry, emptying the sack and packing his
paunch, and so long as he could go that way, he would not have given a
farthing to meet with another adventure.
While so engaged he raised his eyes and saw that his master had halted,
and was trying with the point of his pike to lift some bulky object
that lay upon the ground, on which he hastened to join him and help him
if it were needful, and reached him just as with the point of the pike
he was raising a saddle-pad with a valise attached to it, half or
rather wholly rotten and torn; but so heavy were they that Sancho had
to help to take them up, and his master directed him to see what the
valise contained. Sancho did so with great alacrity, and though the
valise was secured by a chain and padlock, from its torn and rotten
condition he was able to see its contents, which were four shirts of
fine holland, and other articles of linen no less curious than clean;
and in a handkerchief he found a good lot of gold crowns, and as soon
as he saw them he exclaimed:
“Blessed be all Heaven for sending us an adventure that is good for
something!”
Searching further he found a little memorandum book richly bound; this
Don Quixote asked of him, telling him to take the money and keep it for
himself. Sancho kissed his hands for the favour, and cleared the valise
of its linen, which he stowed away in the provision sack. Considering
the whole matter, Don Quixote observed:
“It seems to me, Sancho—and it is impossible it can be otherwise—that
some strayed traveller must have crossed this sierra and been attacked
and slain by footpads, who brought him to this remote spot to bury
him.”
“That cannot be,” answered Sancho, “because if they had been robbers
they would not have left this money.”
“Thou art right,” said Don Quixote, “and I cannot guess or explain what
this may mean; but stay; let us see if in this memorandum book there is
anything written by which we may be able to trace out or discover what
we want to know.”
He opened it, and the first thing he found in it, written roughly but
in a very good hand, was a sonnet, and reading it aloud that Sancho
might hear it, he found that it ran as follows:
SONNET
Or Love is lacking in intelligence,
Or to the height of cruelty attains,
Or else it is my doom to suffer pains
Beyond the measure due to my offence.
But if Love be a God, it follows thence
That he knows all, and certain it remains
No God loves cruelty; then who ordains
This penance that enthrals while it torments?
It were a falsehood, Chloe, thee to name;
Such evil with such goodness cannot live;
And against Heaven I dare not charge the blame,
I only know it is my fate to die.
To him who knows not whence his malady
A miracle alone a cure can give.
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“There is nothing to be learned from that rhyme,” said Sancho, “unless
by that clue there’s in it, one may draw out the ball of the whole
matter.”
“What clue is there?” said Don Quixote.
“I thought your worship spoke of a clue in it,” said Sancho.
“I only said Chloe,” replied Don Quixote; “and that no doubt, is the
name of the lady of whom the author of the sonnet complains; and,
faith, he must be a tolerable poet, or I know little of the craft.”
“Then your worship understands rhyming too?”
“And better than thou thinkest,” replied Don Quixote, “as thou shalt
see when thou carriest a letter written in verse from beginning to end
to my lady Dulcinea del Toboso, for I would have thee know, Sancho,
that all or most of the knights-errant in days of yore were great
troubadours and great musicians, for both of these accomplishments, or
more properly speaking gifts, are the peculiar property of
lovers-errant: true it is that the verses of the knights of old have
more spirit than neatness in them.”
“Read more, your worship,” said Sancho, “and you will find something
that will enlighten us.”
Don Quixote turned the page and said, “This is prose and seems to be a
letter.”
“A correspondence letter, señor?”
“From the beginning it seems to be a love letter,” replied Don Quixote.
“Then let your worship read it aloud,” said Sancho, “for I am very fond
of love matters.”
“With all my heart,” said Don Quixote, and reading it aloud as Sancho
had requested him, he found it ran thus:
Thy false promise and my sure misfortune carry me to a place whence the
news of my death will reach thy ears before the words of my complaint.
Ungrateful one, thou hast rejected me for one more wealthy, but not
more worthy; but if virtue were esteemed wealth I should neither envy
the fortunes of others nor weep for misfortunes of my own. What thy
beauty raised up thy deeds have laid low; by it I believed thee to be
an angel, by them I know thou art a woman. Peace be with thee who hast
sent war to me, and Heaven grant that the deceit of thy husband be ever
hidden from thee, so that thou repent not of what thou hast done, and I
reap not a revenge I would not have.
When he had finished the letter, Don Quixote said, “There is less to be
gathered from this than from the verses, except that he who wrote it is
some rejected lover;” and turning over nearly all the pages of the book
he found more verses and letters, some of which he could read, while
others he could not; but they were all made up of complaints, laments,
misgivings, desires and aversions, favours and rejections, some
rapturous, some doleful. While Don Quixote examined the book, Sancho
examined the valise, not leaving a corner in the whole of it or in the
pad that he did not search, peer into, and explore, or seam that he did
not rip, or tuft of wool that he did not pick to pieces, lest anything
should escape for want of care and pains; so keen was the covetousness
excited in him by the discovery of the crowns, which amounted to near a
hundred; and though he found no more booty, he held the blanket
flights, balsam vomits, stake benedictions, carriers’ fisticuffs,
missing alforjas, stolen coat, and all the hunger, thirst, and
weariness he had endured in the service of his good master, cheap at
the price; as he considered himself more than fully indemnified for all
by the payment he received in the gift of the treasure-trove.
The Knight of the Rueful Countenance was still very anxious to find out
who the owner of the valise could be, conjecturing from the sonnet and
letter, from the money in gold, and from the fineness of the shirts,
that he must be some lover of distinction whom the scorn and cruelty of
his lady had driven to some desperate course; but as in that
uninhabited and rugged spot there was no one to be seen of whom he
could inquire, he saw nothing else for it but to push on, taking
whatever road Rocinante chose—which was where he could make his
way—firmly persuaded that among these wilds he could not fail to meet
some rare adventure. As he went along, then, occupied with these
thoughts, he perceived on the summit of a height that rose before their
eyes a man who went springing from rock to rock and from tussock to
tussock with marvellous agility. As well as he could make out he was
unclad, with a thick black beard, long tangled hair, and bare legs and
feet, his thighs were covered by breeches apparently of tawny velvet
but so ragged that they showed his skin in several places.
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He was bareheaded, and notwithstanding the swiftness with which he
passed as has been described, the Knight of the Rueful Countenance
observed and noted all these trifles, and though he made the attempt,
he was unable to follow him, for it was not granted to the feebleness
of Rocinante to make way over such rough ground, he being, moreover,
slow-paced and sluggish by nature. Don Quixote at once came to the
conclusion that this was the owner of the saddle-pad and of the valise,
and made up his mind to go in search of him, even though he should have
to wander a year in those mountains before he found him, and so he
directed Sancho to take a short cut over one side of the mountain,
while he himself went by the other, and perhaps by this means they
might light upon this man who had passed so quickly out of their sight.
“I could not do that,” said Sancho, “for when I separate from your
worship fear at once lays hold of me, and assails me with all sorts of
panics and fancies; and let what I now say be a notice that from this
time forth I am not going to stir a finger’s width from your presence.”
“It shall be so,” said he of the Rueful Countenance, “and I am very
glad that thou art willing to rely on my courage, which will never fail
thee, even though the soul in thy body fail thee; so come on now behind
me slowly as well as thou canst, and make lanterns of thine eyes; let
us make the circuit of this ridge; perhaps we shall light upon this man
that we saw, who no doubt is no other than the owner of what we found.”
To which Sancho made answer, “Far better would it be not to look for
him, for, if we find him, and he happens to be the owner of the money,
it is plain I must restore it; it would be better, therefore, that
without taking this needless trouble, I should keep possession of it
until in some other less meddlesome and officious way the real owner
may be discovered; and perhaps that will be when I shall have spent it,
and then the king will hold me harmless.”
“Thou art wrong there, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “for now that we have
a suspicion who the owner is, and have him almost before us, we are
bound to seek him and make restitution; and if we do not see him, the
strong suspicion we have as to his being the owner makes us as guilty
as if he were so; and so, friend Sancho, let not our search for him
give thee any uneasiness, for if we find him it will relieve mine.”
And so saying he gave Rocinante the spur, and Sancho followed him on
foot and loaded, and after having partly made the circuit of the
mountain they found lying in a ravine, dead and half devoured by dogs
and pecked by jackdaws, a mule saddled and bridled, all which still
further strengthened their suspicion that he who had fled was the owner
of the mule and the saddle-pad.
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As they stood looking at it they heard a whistle like that of a
shepherd watching his flock, and suddenly on their left there appeared
a great number of goats and behind them on the summit of the mountain
the goatherd in charge of them, a man advanced in years. Don Quixote
called aloud to him and begged him to come down to where they stood. He
shouted in return, asking what had brought them to that spot, seldom or
never trodden except by the feet of goats, or of the wolves and other
wild beasts that roamed around. Sancho in return bade him come down,
and they would explain all to him.
The goatherd descended, and reaching the place where Don Quixote stood,
he said, “I will wager you are looking at that hack mule that lies dead
in the hollow there, and, faith, it has been lying there now these six
months; tell me, have you come upon its master about here?”
“We have come upon nobody,” answered Don Quixote, “nor on anything
except a saddle-pad and a little valise that we found not far from
this.”
“I found it too,” said the goatherd, “but I would not lift it nor go
near it for fear of some ill-luck or being charged with theft, for the
devil is crafty, and things rise up under one’s feet to make one fall
without knowing why or wherefore.”
“That’s exactly what I say,” said Sancho; “I found it too, and I would
not go within a stone’s throw of it; there I left it, and there it lies
just as it was, for I don’t want a dog with a bell.”
“Tell me, good man,” said Don Quixote, “do you know who is the owner of
this property?”
“All I can tell you,” said the goatherd, “is that about six months ago,
more or less, there arrived at a shepherd’s hut three leagues, perhaps,
away from this, a youth of well-bred appearance and manners, mounted on
that same mule which lies dead here, and with the same saddle-pad and
valise which you say you found and did not touch. He asked us what part
of this sierra was the most rugged and retired; we told him that it was
where we now are; and so in truth it is, for if you push on half a
league farther, perhaps you will not be able to find your way out; and
I am wondering how you have managed to come here, for there is no road
or path that leads to this spot. I say, then, that on hearing our
answer the youth turned about and made for the place we pointed out to
him, leaving us all charmed with his good looks, and wondering at his
question and the haste with which we saw him depart in the direction of
the sierra; and after that we saw him no more, until some days
afterwards he crossed the path of one of our shepherds, and without
saying a word to him, came up to him and gave him several cuffs and
kicks, and then turned to the ass with our provisions and took all the
bread and cheese it carried, and having done this made off back again
into the sierra with extraordinary swiftness. When some of us goatherds
learned this we went in search of him for about two days through the
most remote portion of this sierra, at the end of which we found him
lodged in the hollow of a large thick cork tree. He came out to meet us
with great gentleness, with his dress now torn and his face so
disfigured and burned by the sun, that we hardly recognised him but
that his clothes, though torn, convinced us, from the recollection we
had of them, that he was the person we were looking for. He saluted us
courteously, and in a few well-spoken words he told us not to wonder at
seeing him going about in this guise, as it was binding upon him in
order that he might work out a penance which for his many sins had been
imposed upon him. We asked him to tell us who he was, but we were never
able to find out from him: we begged of him too, when he was in want of
food, which he could not do without, to tell us where we should find
him, as we would bring it to him with all good-will and readiness; or
if this were not to his taste, at least to come and ask it of us and
not take it by force from the shepherds. He thanked us for the offer,
begged pardon for the late assault, and promised for the future to ask
it in God’s name without offering violence to anybody. As for fixed
abode, he said he had no other than that which chance offered wherever
night might overtake him; and his words ended in an outburst of weeping
so bitter that we who listened to him must have been very stones had we
not joined him in it, comparing what we saw of him the first time with
what we saw now; for, as I said, he was a graceful and gracious youth,
and in his courteous and polished language showed himself to be of good
birth and courtly breeding, and rustics as we were that listened to
him, even to our rusticity his gentle bearing sufficed to make it
plain.
“But in the midst of his conversation he stopped and became silent,
keeping his eyes fixed upon the ground for some time, during which we
stood still waiting anxiously to see what would come of this
abstraction; and with no little pity, for from his behaviour, now
staring at the ground with fixed gaze and eyes wide open without moving
an eyelid, again closing them, compressing his lips and raising his
eyebrows, we could perceive plainly that a fit of madness of some kind
had come upon him; and before long he showed that what we imagined was
the truth, for he arose in a fury from the ground where he had thrown
himself, and attacked the first he found near him with such rage and
fierceness that if we had not dragged him off him, he would have beaten
or bitten him to death, all the while exclaiming, ‘Oh faithless
Fernando, here, here shalt thou pay the penalty of the wrong thou hast
done me; these hands shall tear out that heart of thine, abode and
dwelling of all iniquity, but of deceit and fraud above all; and to
these he added other words all in effect upbraiding this Fernando and
charging him with treachery and faithlessness.
“We forced him to release his hold with no little difficulty, and
without another word he left us, and rushing off plunged in among these
brakes and brambles, so as to make it impossible for us to follow him;
from this we suppose that madness comes upon him from time to time, and
that someone called Fernando must have done him a wrong of a grievous
nature such as the condition to which it had brought him seemed to
show. All this has been since then confirmed on those occasions, and
they have been many, on which he has crossed our path, at one time to
beg the shepherds to give him some of the food they carry, at another
to take it from them by force; for when there is a fit of madness upon
him, even though the shepherds offer it freely, he will not accept it
but snatches it from them by dint of blows; but when he is in his
senses he begs it for the love of God, courteously and civilly, and
receives it with many thanks and not a few tears. And to tell you the
truth, sirs,” continued the goatherd, “it was yesterday that we
resolved, I and four of the lads, two of them our servants, and the
other two friends of mine, to go in search of him until we find him,
and when we do to take him, whether by force or of his own consent, to
the town of Almodóvar, which is eight leagues from this, and there
strive to cure him (if indeed his malady admits of a cure), or learn
when he is in his senses who he is, and if he has relatives to whom we
may give notice of his misfortune. This, sirs, is all I can say in
answer to what you have asked me; and be sure that the owner of the
articles you found is he whom you saw pass by with such nimbleness and
so naked.”
For Don Quixote had already described how he had seen the man go
bounding along the mountainside, and he was now filled with amazement
at what he heard from the goatherd, and more eager than ever to
discover who the unhappy madman was; and in his heart he resolved, as
he had done before, to search for him all over the mountain, not
leaving a corner or cave unexamined until he had found him. But chance
arranged matters better than he expected or hoped, for at that very
moment, in a gorge on the mountain that opened where they stood, the
youth he wished to find made his appearance, coming along talking to
himself in a way that would have been unintelligible near at hand, much
more at a distance. His garb was what has been described, save that as
he drew near, Don Quixote perceived that a tattered doublet which he
wore was amber-tanned, from which he concluded that one who wore such
garments could not be of very low rank.
Approaching them, the youth greeted them in a harsh and hoarse voice
but with great courtesy. Don Quixote returned his salutation with equal
politeness, and dismounting from Rocinante advanced with well-bred
bearing and grace to embrace him, and held him for some time close in
his arms as if he had known him for a long time. The other, whom we may
call the Ragged One of the Sorry Countenance, as Don Quixote was of the
Rueful, after submitting to the embrace pushed him back a little and,
placing his hands on Don Quixote’s shoulders, stood gazing at him as if
seeking to see whether he knew him, not less amazed, perhaps, at the
sight of the face, figure, and armour of Don Quixote than Don Quixote
was at the sight of him. To be brief, the first to speak after
embracing was the Ragged One, and he said what will be told farther on.
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CHAPTER XXIV.
IN WHICH IS CONTINUED THE ADVENTURE OF THE SIERRA MORENA
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The history relates that it was with the greatest attention Don Quixote
listened to the ragged knight of the Sierra, who began by saying:
“Of a surety, señor, whoever you are, for I know you not, I thank you
for the proofs of kindness and courtesy you have shown me, and would I
were in a condition to requite with something more than good-will that
which you have displayed towards me in the cordial reception you have
given me; but my fate does not afford me any other means of returning
kindnesses done me save the hearty desire to repay them.”
“Mine,” replied Don Quixote, “is to be of service to you, so much so
that I had resolved not to quit these mountains until I had found you,
and learned of you whether there is any kind of relief to be found for
that sorrow under which from the strangeness of your life you seem to
labour; and to search for you with all possible diligence, if search
had been necessary. And if your misfortune should prove to be one of
those that refuse admission to any sort of consolation, it was my
purpose to join you in lamenting and mourning over it, so far as I
could; for it is still some comfort in misfortune to find one who can
feel for it. And if my good intentions deserve to be acknowledged with
any kind of courtesy, I entreat you, señor, by that which I perceive
you possess in so high a degree, and likewise conjure you by whatever
you love or have loved best in life, to tell me who you are and the
cause that has brought you to live or die in these solitudes like a
brute beast, dwelling among them in a manner so foreign to your
condition as your garb and appearance show. And I swear,” added Don
Quixote, “by the order of knighthood which I have received, and by my
vocation of knight-errant, if you gratify me in this, to serve you with
all the zeal my calling demands of me, either in relieving your
misfortune if it admits of relief, or in joining you in lamenting it as
I promised to do.”
The Knight of the Thicket, hearing him of the Rueful Countenance talk
in this strain, did nothing but stare at him, and stare at him again,
and again survey him from head to foot; and when he had thoroughly
examined him, he said to him:
“If you have anything to give me to eat, for God’s sake give it me, and
after I have eaten I will do all you ask in acknowledgment of the
goodwill you have displayed towards me.”
Sancho from his sack, and the goatherd from his pouch, furnished the
Ragged One with the means of appeasing his hunger, and what they gave
him he ate like a half-witted being, so hastily that he took no time
between mouthfuls, gorging rather than swallowing; and while he ate
neither he nor they who observed him uttered a word. As soon as he had
done he made signs to them to follow him, which they did, and he led
them to a green plot which lay a little farther off round the corner of
a rock. On reaching it he stretched himself upon the grass, and the
others did the same, all keeping silence, until the Ragged One,
settling himself in his place, said:
“If it is your wish, sirs, that I should disclose in a few words the
surpassing extent of my misfortunes, you must promise not to break the
thread of my sad story with any question or other interruption, for the
instant you do so the tale I tell will come to an end.”
These words of the Ragged One reminded Don Quixote of the tale his
squire had told him, when he failed to keep count of the goats that had
crossed the river and the story remained unfinished; but to return to
the Ragged One, he went on to say:
“I give you this warning because I wish to pass briefly over the story
of my misfortunes, for recalling them to memory only serves to add
fresh ones, and the less you question me the sooner shall I make an end
of the recital, though I shall not omit to relate anything of
importance in order fully to satisfy your curiosity.”
Don Quixote gave the promise for himself and the others, and with this
assurance he began as follows:
“My name is Cardenio, my birthplace one of the best cities of this
Andalusia, my family noble, my parents rich, my misfortune so great
that my parents must have wept and my family grieved over it without
being able by their wealth to lighten it; for the gifts of fortune can
do little to relieve reverses sent by Heaven. In that same country
there was a heaven in which love had placed all the glory I could
desire; such was the beauty of Luscinda, a damsel as noble and as rich
as I, but of happier fortunes, and of less firmness than was due to so
worthy a passion as mine. This Luscinda I loved, worshipped, and adored
from my earliest and tenderest years, and she loved me in all the
innocence and sincerity of childhood. Our parents were aware of our
feelings, and were not sorry to perceive them, for they saw clearly
that as they ripened they must lead at last to a marriage between us, a
thing that seemed almost prearranged by the equality of our families
and wealth. We grew up, and with our growth grew the love between us,
so that the father of Luscinda felt bound for propriety’s sake to
refuse me admission to his house, in this perhaps imitating the parents
of that Thisbe so celebrated by the poets, and this refusal but added
love to love and flame to flame; for though they enforced silence upon
our tongues they could not impose it upon our pens, which can make
known the heart’s secrets to a loved one more freely than tongues; for
many a time the presence of the object of love shakes the firmest will
and strikes dumb the boldest tongue. Ah heavens! how many letters did I
write her, and how many dainty modest replies did I receive! how many
ditties and love-songs did I compose in which my heart declared and
made known its feelings, described its ardent longings, revelled in its
recollections and dallied with its desires! At length growing impatient
and feeling my heart languishing with longing to see her, I resolved to
put into execution and carry out what seemed to me the best mode of
winning my desired and merited reward, to ask her of her father for my
lawful wife, which I did. To this his answer was that he thanked me for
the disposition I showed to do honour to him and to regard myself as
honoured by the bestowal of his treasure; but that as my father was
alive it was his by right to make this demand, for if it were not in
accordance with his full will and pleasure, Luscinda was not to be
taken or given by stealth. I thanked him for his kindness, reflecting
that there was reason in what he said, and that my father would assent
to it as soon as I should tell him, and with that view I went the very
same instant to let him know what my desires were. When I entered the
room where he was I found him with an open letter in his hand, which,
before I could utter a word, he gave me, saying, ‘By this letter thou
wilt see, Cardenio, the disposition the Duke Ricardo has to serve
thee.’ This Duke Ricardo, as you, sirs, probably know already, is a
grandee of Spain who has his seat in the best part of this Andalusia. I
took and read the letter, which was couched in terms so flattering that
even I myself felt it would be wrong in my father not to comply with
the request the duke made in it, which was that he would send me
immediately to him, as he wished me to become the companion, not
servant, of his eldest son, and would take upon himself the charge of
placing me in a position corresponding to the esteem in which he held
me. On reading the letter my voice failed me, and still more when I
heard my father say, ‘Two days hence thou wilt depart, Cardenio, in
accordance with the duke’s wish, and give thanks to God who is opening
a road to thee by which thou mayest attain what I know thou dost
deserve; and to these words he added others of fatherly counsel. The
time for my departure arrived; I spoke one night to Luscinda, I told
her all that had occurred, as I did also to her father, entreating him
to allow some delay, and to defer the disposal of her hand until I
should see what the Duke Ricardo sought of me: he gave me the promise,
and she confirmed it with vows and swoonings unnumbered. Finally, I
presented myself to the duke, and was received and treated by him so
kindly that very soon envy began to do its work, the old servants
growing envious of me, and regarding the duke’s inclination to show me
favour as an injury to themselves. But the one to whom my arrival gave
the greatest pleasure was the duke’s second son, Fernando by name, a
gallant youth, of noble, generous, and amorous disposition, who very
soon made so intimate a friend of me that it was remarked by everybody;
for though the elder was attached to me, and showed me kindness, he did
not carry his affectionate treatment to the same length as Don
Fernando. It so happened, then, that as between friends no secret
remains unshared, and as the favour I enjoyed with Don Fernando had
grown into friendship, he made all his thoughts known to me, and in
particular a love affair which troubled his mind a little. He was
deeply in love with a peasant girl, a vassal of his father’s, the
daughter of wealthy parents, and herself so beautiful, modest,
discreet, and virtuous, that no one who knew her was able to decide in
which of these respects she was most highly gifted or most excelled.
The attractions of the fair peasant raised the passion of Don Fernando
to such a point that, in order to gain his object and overcome her
virtuous resolutions, he determined to pledge his word to her to become
her husband, for to attempt it in any other way was to attempt an
impossibility. Bound to him as I was by friendship, I strove by the
best arguments and the most forcible examples I could think of to
restrain and dissuade him from such a course; but perceiving I produced
no effect I resolved to make the Duke Ricardo, his father, acquainted
with the matter; but Don Fernando, being sharp-witted and shrewd,
foresaw and apprehended this, perceiving that by my duty as a good
servant I was bound not to keep concealed a thing so much opposed to
the honour of my lord the duke; and so, to mislead and deceive me, he
told me he could find no better way of effacing from his mind the
beauty that so enslaved him than by absenting himself for some months,
and that he wished the absence to be effected by our going, both of us,
to my father’s house under the pretence, which he would make to the
duke, of going to see and buy some fine horses that there were in my
city, which produces the best in the world. When I heard him say so,
even if his resolution had not been so good a one I should have hailed
it as one of the happiest that could be imagined, prompted by my
affection, seeing what a favourable chance and opportunity it offered
me of returning to see my Luscinda. With this thought and wish I
commended his idea and encouraged his design, advising him to put it
into execution as quickly as possible, as, in truth, absence produced
its effect in spite of the most deeply rooted feelings. But, as
afterwards appeared, when he said this to me he had already enjoyed the
peasant girl under the title of husband, and was waiting for an
opportunity of making it known with safety to himself, being in dread
of what his father the duke would do when he came to know of his folly.
It happened, then, that as with young men love is for the most part
nothing more than appetite, which, as its final object is enjoyment,
comes to an end on obtaining it, and that which seemed to be love takes
to flight, as it cannot pass the limit fixed by nature, which fixes no
limit to true love—what I mean is that after Don Fernando had enjoyed
this peasant girl his passion subsided and his eagerness cooled, and if
at first he feigned a wish to absent himself in order to cure his love,
he was now in reality anxious to go to avoid keeping his promise.
“The duke gave him permission, and ordered me to accompany him; we
arrived at my city, and my father gave him the reception due to his
rank; I saw Luscinda without delay, and, though it had not been dead or
deadened, my love gathered fresh life. To my sorrow I told the story of
it to Don Fernando, for I thought that in virtue of the great
friendship he bore me I was bound to conceal nothing from him. I
extolled her beauty, her gaiety, her wit, so warmly, that my praises
excited in him a desire to see a damsel adorned by such attractions. To
my misfortune I yielded to it, showing her to him one night by the
light of a taper at a window where we used to talk to one another. As
she appeared to him in her dressing-gown, she drove all the beauties he
had seen until then out of his recollection; speech failed him, his
head turned, he was spell-bound, and in the end love-smitten, as you
will see in the course of the story of my misfortune; and to inflame
still further his passion, which he hid from me and revealed to Heaven
alone, it so happened that one day he found a note of hers entreating
me to demand her of her father in marriage, so delicate, so modest, and
so tender, that on reading it he told me that in Luscinda alone were
combined all the charms of beauty and understanding that were
distributed among all the other women in the world. It is true, and I
own it now, that though I knew what good cause Don Fernando had to
praise Luscinda, it gave me uneasiness to hear these praises from his
mouth, and I began to fear, and with reason to feel distrust of him,
for there was no moment when he was not ready to talk of Luscinda, and
he would start the subject himself even though he dragged it in
unseasonably, a circumstance that aroused in me a certain amount of
jealousy; not that I feared any change in the constancy or faith of
Luscinda; but still my fate led me to forebode what she assured me
against. Don Fernando contrived always to read the letters I sent to
Luscinda and her answers to me, under the pretence that he enjoyed the
wit and sense of both. It so happened, then, that Luscinda having
begged of me a book of chivalry to read, one that she was very fond of,
Amadis of Gaul—”
Don Quixote no sooner heard a book of chivalry mentioned, than he said:
“Had your worship told me at the beginning of your story that the Lady
Luscinda was fond of books of chivalry, no other laudation would have
been requisite to impress upon me the superiority of her understanding,
for it could not have been of the excellence you describe had a taste
for such delightful reading been wanting; so, as far as I am concerned,
you need waste no more words in describing her beauty, worth, and
intelligence; for, on merely hearing what her taste was, I declare her
to be the most beautiful and the most intelligent woman in the world;
and I wish your worship had, along with Amadis of Gaul, sent her the
worthy Don Rugel of Greece, for I know the Lady Luscinda would greatly
relish Daraida and Garaya, and the shrewd sayings of the shepherd
Darinel, and the admirable verses of his bucolics, sung and delivered
by him with such sprightliness, wit, and ease; but a time may come when
this omission can be remedied, and to rectify it nothing more is needed
than for your worship to be so good as to come with me to my village,
for there I can give you more than three hundred books which are the
delight of my soul and the entertainment of my life;—though it occurs
to me that I have not got one of them now, thanks to the spite of
wicked and envious enchanters;—but pardon me for having broken the
promise we made not to interrupt your discourse; for when I hear
chivalry or knights-errant mentioned, I can no more help talking about
them than the rays of the sun can help giving heat, or those of the
moon moisture; pardon me, therefore, and proceed, for that is more to
the purpose now.”
While Don Quixote was saying this, Cardenio allowed his head to fall
upon his breast, and seemed plunged in deep thought; and though twice
Don Quixote bade him go on with his story, he neither looked up nor
uttered a word in reply; but after some time he raised his head and
said, “I cannot get rid of the idea, nor will anyone in the world
remove it, or make me think otherwise—and he would be a blockhead who
would hold or believe anything else than that that arrant knave Master
Elisabad made free with Queen Madasima.”
“That is not true, by all that’s good,” said Don Quixote in high wrath,
turning upon him angrily, as his way was; “and it is a very great
slander, or rather villainy. Queen Madasima was a very illustrious
lady, and it is not to be supposed that so exalted a princess would
have made free with a quack; and whoever maintains the contrary lies
like a great scoundrel, and I will give him to know it, on foot or on
horseback, armed or unarmed, by night or by day, or as he likes best.”
Cardenio was looking at him steadily, and his mad fit having now come
upon him, he had no disposition to go on with his story, nor would Don
Quixote have listened to it, so much had what he had heard about
Madasima disgusted him. Strange to say, he stood up for her as if she
were in earnest his veritable born lady; to such a pass had his unholy
books brought him. Cardenio, then, being, as I said, now mad, when he
heard himself given the lie, and called a scoundrel and other insulting
names, not relishing the jest, snatched up a stone that he found near
him, and with it delivered such a blow on Don Quixote’s breast that he
laid him on his back. Sancho Panza, seeing his master treated in this
fashion, attacked the madman with his closed fist; but the Ragged One
received him in such a way that with a blow of his fist he stretched
him at his feet, and then mounting upon him crushed his ribs to his own
satisfaction; the goatherd, who came to the rescue, shared the same
fate; and having beaten and pummelled them all he left them and quietly
withdrew to his hiding-place on the mountain. Sancho rose, and with the
rage he felt at finding himself so belaboured without deserving it, ran
to take vengeance on the goatherd, accusing him of not giving them
warning that this man was at times taken with a mad fit, for if they
had known it they would have been on their guard to protect themselves.
The goatherd replied that he had said so, and that if he had not heard
him, that was no fault of his. Sancho retorted, and the goatherd
rejoined, and the altercation ended in their seizing each other by the
beard, and exchanging such fisticuffs that if Don Quixote had not made
peace between them, they would have knocked one another to pieces.
“Leave me alone, Sir Knight of the Rueful Countenance,” said Sancho,
grappling with the goatherd, “for of this fellow, who is a clown like
myself, and no dubbed knight, I can safely take satisfaction for the
affront he has offered me, fighting with him hand to hand like an
honest man.”
“That is true,” said Don Quixote, “but I know that he is not to blame
for what has happened.”
With this he pacified them, and again asked the goatherd if it would be
possible to find Cardenio, as he felt the greatest anxiety to know the
end of his story. The goatherd told him, as he had told him before,
that there was no knowing of a certainty where his lair was; but that
if he wandered about much in that neighbourhood he could not fail to
fall in with him either in or out of his senses.
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CHAPTER XXV.
WHICH TREATS OF THE STRANGE THINGS THAT HAPPENED TO THE STOUT KNIGHT OF
LA MANCHA IN THE SIERRA MORENA, AND OF HIS IMITATION OF THE PENANCE OF
BELTENEBROS
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Don Quixote took leave of the goatherd, and once more mounting
Rocinante bade Sancho follow him, which he having no ass, did very
discontentedly. They proceeded slowly, making their way into the most
rugged part of the mountain, Sancho all the while dying to have a talk
with his master, and longing for him to begin, so that there should be
no breach of the injunction laid upon him; but unable to keep silence
so long he said to him:
“Señor Don Quixote, give me your worship’s blessing and dismissal, for
I’d like to go home at once to my wife and children with whom I can at
any rate talk and converse as much as I like; for to want me to go
through these solitudes day and night and not speak to you when I have
a mind is burying me alive. If luck would have it that animals spoke as
they did in the days of Guisopete, it would not be so bad, because I
could talk to Rocinante about whatever came into my head, and so put up
with my ill-fortune; but it is a hard case, and not to be borne with
patience, to go seeking adventures all one’s life and get nothing but
kicks and blanketings, brickbats and punches, and with all this to have
to sew up one’s mouth without daring to say what is in one’s heart,
just as if one were dumb.”
“I understand thee, Sancho,” replied Don Quixote; “thou art dying to
have the interdict I placed upon thy tongue removed; consider it
removed, and say what thou wilt while we are wandering in these
mountains.”
“So be it,” said Sancho; “let me speak now, for God knows what will
happen by-and-by; and to take advantage of the permit at once, I ask,
what made your worship stand up so for that Queen Majimasa, or whatever
her name is, or what did it matter whether that abbot was a friend of
hers or not? for if your worship had let that pass—and you were not a
judge in the matter—it is my belief the madman would have gone on with
his story, and the blow of the stone, and the kicks, and more than half
a dozen cuffs would have been escaped.”
“In faith, Sancho,” answered Don Quixote, “if thou knewest as I do what
an honourable and illustrious lady Queen Madasima was, I know thou
wouldst say I had great patience that I did not break in pieces the
mouth that uttered such blasphemies, for a very great blasphemy it is
to say or imagine that a queen has made free with a surgeon. The truth
of the story is that that Master Elisabad whom the madman mentioned was
a man of great prudence and sound judgment, and served as governor and
physician to the queen, but to suppose that she was his mistress is
nonsense deserving very severe punishment; and as a proof that Cardenio
did not know what he was saying, remember when he said it he was out of
his wits.”
“That is what I say,” said Sancho; “there was no occasion for minding
the words of a madman; for if good luck had not helped your worship,
and he had sent that stone at your head instead of at your breast, a
fine way we should have been in for standing up for my lady yonder, God
confound her! And then, would not Cardenio have gone free as a madman?”
“Against men in their senses or against madmen,” said Don Quixote,
“every knight-errant is bound to stand up for the honour of women,
whoever they may be, much more for queens of such high degree and
dignity as Queen Madasima, for whom I have a particular regard on
account of her amiable qualities; for, besides being extremely
beautiful, she was very wise, and very patient under her misfortunes,
of which she had many; and the counsel and society of the Master
Elisabad were a great help and support to her in enduring her
afflictions with wisdom and resignation; hence the ignorant and
ill-disposed vulgar took occasion to say and think that she was his
mistress; and they lie, I say it once more, and will lie two hundred
times more, all who think and say so.”
“I neither say nor think so,” said Sancho; “let them look to it; with
their bread let them eat it; they have rendered account to God whether
they misbehaved or not; I come from my vineyard, I know nothing; I am
not fond of prying into other men’s lives; he who buys and lies feels
it in his purse; moreover, naked was I born, naked I find myself, I
neither lose nor gain; but if they did, what is that to me? many think
there are flitches where there are no hooks; but who can put gates to
the open plain? moreover they said of God—”
“God bless me,” said Don Quixote, “what a set of absurdities thou art
stringing together! What has what we are talking about got to do with
the proverbs thou art threading one after the other? for God’s sake
hold thy tongue, Sancho, and henceforward keep to prodding thy ass and
don’t meddle in what does not concern thee; and understand with all thy
five senses that everything I have done, am doing, or shall do, is well
founded on reason and in conformity with the rules of chivalry, for I
understand them better than all the world that profess them.”
“Señor,” replied Sancho, “is it a good rule of chivalry that we should
go astray through these mountains without path or road, looking for a
madman who when he is found will perhaps take a fancy to finish what he
began, not his story, but your worship’s head and my ribs, and end by
breaking them altogether for us?”
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“Peace, I say again, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “for let me tell thee
it is not so much the desire of finding that madman that leads me into
these regions as that which I have of performing among them an
achievement wherewith I shall win eternal name and fame throughout the
known world; and it shall be such that I shall thereby set the seal on
all that can make a knight-errant perfect and famous.”
“And is it very perilous, this achievement?”
“No,” replied he of the Rueful Countenance; “though it may be in the
dice that we may throw deuce-ace instead of sixes; but all will depend
on thy diligence.”
“On my diligence!” said Sancho.
“Yes,” said Don Quixote, “for if thou dost return soon from the place
where I mean to send thee, my penance will be soon over, and my glory
will soon begin. But as it is not right to keep thee any longer in
suspense, waiting to see what comes of my words, I would have thee
know, Sancho, that the famous Amadis of Gaul was one of the most
perfect knights-errant—I am wrong to say he was one; he stood alone,
the first, the only one, the lord of all that were in the world in his
time. A fig for Don Belianis, and for all who say he equalled him in
any respect, for, my oath upon it, they are deceiving themselves! I
say, too, that when a painter desires to become famous in his art he
endeavours to copy the originals of the rarest painters that he knows;
and the same rule holds good for all the most important crafts and
callings that serve to adorn a state; thus must he who would be
esteemed prudent and patient imitate Ulysses, in whose person and
labours Homer presents to us a lively picture of prudence and patience;
as Virgil, too, shows us in the person of Æneas the virtue of a pious
son and the sagacity of a brave and skilful captain; not representing
or describing them as they were, but as they ought to be, so as to
leave the example of their virtues to posterity. In the same way Amadis
was the polestar, day-star, sun of valiant and devoted knights, whom
all we who fight under the banner of love and chivalry are bound to
imitate. This, then, being so, I consider, friend Sancho, that the
knight-errant who shall imitate him most closely will come nearest to
reaching the perfection of chivalry. Now one of the instances in which
this knight most conspicuously showed his prudence, worth, valour,
endurance, fortitude, and love, was when he withdrew, rejected by the
Lady Oriana, to do penance upon the Peña Pobre, changing his name into
that of Beltenebros, a name assuredly significant and appropriate to
the life which he had voluntarily adopted. So, as it is easier for me
to imitate him in this than in cleaving giants asunder, cutting off
serpents’ heads, slaying dragons, routing armies, destroying fleets,
and breaking enchantments, and as this place is so well suited for a
similar purpose, I must not allow the opportunity to escape which now
so conveniently offers me its forelock.”
“What is it in reality,” said Sancho, “that your worship means to do in
such an out-of-the-way place as this?”
“Have I not told thee,” answered Don Quixote, “that I mean to imitate
Amadis here, playing the victim of despair, the madman, the maniac, so
as at the same time to imitate the valiant Don Roland, when at the
fountain he had evidence of the fair Angelica having disgraced herself
with Medoro and through grief thereat went mad, and plucked up trees,
troubled the waters of the clear springs, slew shepherds, destroyed
flocks, burned down huts, levelled houses, dragged mares after him, and
perpetrated a hundred thousand other outrages worthy of everlasting
renown and record? And though I have no intention of imitating Roland,
or Orlando, or Rotolando (for he went by all these names), step by step
in all the mad things he did, said, and thought, I will make a rough
copy to the best of my power of all that seems to me most essential;
but perhaps I shall content myself with the simple imitation of Amadis,
who without giving way to any mischievous madness but merely to tears
and sorrow, gained as much fame as the most famous.”
“It seems to me,” said Sancho, “that the knights who behaved in this
way had provocation and cause for those follies and penances; but what
cause has your worship for going mad? What lady has rejected you, or
what evidence have you found to prove that the lady Dulcinea del Toboso
has been trifling with Moor or Christian?”
“There is the point,” replied Don Quixote, “and that is the beauty of
this business of mine; no thanks to a knight-errant for going mad when
he has cause; the thing is to turn crazy without any provocation, and
let my lady know, if I do this in the dry, what I would do in the
moist; moreover I have abundant cause in the long separation I have
endured from my lady till death, Dulcinea del Toboso; for as thou didst
hear that shepherd Ambrosio say the other day, in absence all ills are
felt and feared; and so, friend Sancho, waste no time in advising me
against so rare, so happy, and so unheard-of an imitation; mad I am,
and mad I must be until thou returnest with the answer to a letter that
I mean to send by thee to my lady Dulcinea; and if it be such as my
constancy deserves, my insanity and penance will come to an end; and if
it be to the opposite effect, I shall become mad in earnest, and, being
so, I shall suffer no more; thus in whatever way she may answer I shall
escape from the struggle and affliction in which thou wilt leave me,
enjoying in my senses the boon thou bearest me, or as a madman not
feeling the evil thou bringest me. But tell me, Sancho, hast thou got
Mambrino’s helmet safe? for I saw thee take it up from the ground when
that ungrateful wretch tried to break it in pieces but could not, by
which the fineness of its temper may be seen.”
To which Sancho made answer, “By the living God, Sir Knight of the
Rueful Countenance, I cannot endure or bear with patience some of the
things that your worship says; and from them I begin to suspect that
all you tell me about chivalry, and winning kingdoms and empires, and
giving islands, and bestowing other rewards and dignities after the
custom of knights-errant, must be all made up of wind and lies, and all
pigments or figments, or whatever we may call them; for what would
anyone think that heard your worship calling a barber’s basin
Mambrino’s helmet without ever seeing the mistake all this time, but
that one who says and maintains such things must have his brains
addled? I have the basin in my sack all dinted, and I am taking it home
to have it mended, to trim my beard in it, if, by God’s grace, I am
allowed to see my wife and children some day or other.”
“Look here, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “by him thou didst swear by just
now I swear thou hast the most limited understanding that any squire in
the world has or ever had. Is it possible that all this time thou hast
been going about with me thou hast never found out that all things
belonging to knights-errant seem to be illusions and nonsense and
ravings, and to go always by contraries? And not because it really is
so, but because there is always a swarm of enchanters in attendance
upon us that change and alter everything with us, and turn things as
they please, and according as they are disposed to aid or destroy us;
thus what seems to thee a barber’s basin seems to me Mambrino’s helmet,
and to another it will seem something else; and rare foresight it was
in the sage who is on my side to make what is really and truly
Mambrino’s helmet seem a basin to everybody, for, being held in such
estimation as it is, all the world would pursue me to rob me of it; but
when they see it is only a barber’s basin they do not take the trouble
to obtain it; as was plainly shown by him who tried to break it, and
left it on the ground without taking it, for, by my faith, had he known
it he would never have left it behind. Keep it safe, my friend, for
just now I have no need of it; indeed, I shall have to take off all
this armour and remain as naked as I was born, if I have a mind to
follow Roland rather than Amadis in my penance.”
Thus talking they reached the foot of a high mountain which stood like
an isolated peak among the others that surrounded it. Past its base
there flowed a gentle brook, all around it spread a meadow so green and
luxuriant that it was a delight to the eyes to look upon it, and forest
trees in abundance, and shrubs and flowers, added to the charms of the
spot. Upon this place the Knight of the Rueful Countenance fixed his
choice for the performance of his penance, and as he beheld it
exclaimed in a loud voice as though he were out of his senses:
“This is the place, oh, ye heavens, that I select and choose for
bewailing the misfortune in which ye yourselves have plunged me: this
is the spot where the overflowings of mine eyes shall swell the waters
of yon little brook, and my deep and endless sighs shall stir
unceasingly the leaves of these mountain trees, in testimony and token
of the pain my persecuted heart is suffering. Oh, ye rural deities,
whoever ye be that haunt this lone spot, give ear to the complaint of a
wretched lover whom long absence and brooding jealousy have driven to
bewail his fate among these wilds and complain of the hard heart of
that fair and ungrateful one, the end and limit of all human beauty!
Oh, ye wood nymphs and dryads, that dwell in the thickets of the
forest, so may the nimble wanton satyrs by whom ye are vainly wooed
never disturb your sweet repose, help me to lament my hard fate or at
least weary not at listening to it! Oh, Dulcinea del Toboso, day of my
night, glory of my pain, guide of my path, star of my fortune, so may
Heaven grant thee in full all thou seekest of it, bethink thee of the
place and condition to which absence from thee has brought me, and make
that return in kindness that is due to my fidelity! Oh, lonely trees,
that from this day forward shall bear me company in my solitude, give
me some sign by the gentle movement of your boughs that my presence is
not distasteful to you! Oh, thou, my squire, pleasant companion in my
prosperous and adverse fortunes, fix well in thy memory what thou shalt
see me do here, so that thou mayest relate and report it to the sole
cause of all,” and so saying he dismounted from Rocinante, and in an
instant relieved him of saddle and bridle, and giving him a slap on the
croup, said, “He gives thee freedom who is bereft of it himself, oh
steed as excellent in deed as thou art unfortunate in thy lot; begone
where thou wilt, for thou bearest written on thy forehead that neither
Astolfo’s hippogriff, nor the famed Frontino that cost Bradamante so
dear, could equal thee in speed.”
Seeing this Sancho said, “Good luck to him who has saved us the trouble
of stripping the pack-saddle off Dapple! By my faith he would not have
gone without a slap on the croup and something said in his praise;
though if he were here I would not let anyone strip him, for there
would be no occasion, as he had nothing of the lover or victim of
despair about him, inasmuch as his master, which I was while it was
God’s pleasure, was nothing of the sort; and indeed, Sir Knight of the
Rueful Countenance, if my departure and your worship’s madness are to
come off in earnest, it will be as well to saddle Rocinante again in
order that he may supply the want of Dapple, because it will save me
time in going and returning: for if I go on foot I don’t know when I
shall get there or when I shall get back, as I am, in truth, a bad
walker.”
“I declare, Sancho,” returned Don Quixote, “it shall be as thou wilt,
for thy plan does not seem to me a bad one, and three days hence thou
wilt depart, for I wish thee to observe in the meantime what I do and
say for her sake, that thou mayest be able to tell it.”
“But what more have I to see besides what I have seen?” said Sancho.
“Much thou knowest about it!” said Don Quixote. “I have now got to tear
up my garments, to scatter about my armour, knock my head against these
rocks, and more of the same sort of thing, which thou must witness.”
“For the love of God,” said Sancho, “be careful, your worship, how you
give yourself those knocks on the head, for you may come across such a
rock, and in such a way, that the very first may put an end to the
whole contrivance of this penance; and I should think, if indeed knocks
on the head seem necessary to you, and this business cannot be done
without them, you might be content—as the whole thing is feigned, and
counterfeit, and in joke—you might be content, I say, with giving them
to yourself in the water, or against something soft, like cotton; and
leave it all to me; for I’ll tell my lady that your worship knocked
your head against a point of rock harder than a diamond.”
“I thank thee for thy good intentions, friend Sancho,” answered Don
Quixote, “but I would have thee know that all these things I am doing
are not in joke, but very much in earnest, for anything else would be a
transgression of the ordinances of chivalry, which forbid us to tell
any lie whatever under the penalties due to apostasy; and to do one
thing instead of another is just the same as lying; so my knocks on the
head must be real, solid, and valid, without anything sophisticated or
fanciful about them, and it will be needful to leave me some lint to
dress my wounds, since fortune has compelled us to do without the
balsam we lost.”
“It was worse losing the ass,” replied Sancho, “for with him lint and
all were lost; but I beg of your worship not to remind me again of that
accursed liquor, for my soul, not to say my stomach, turns at hearing
the very name of it; and I beg of you, too, to reckon as past the three
days you allowed me for seeing the mad things you do, for I take them
as seen already and pronounced upon, and I will tell wonderful stories
to my lady; so write the letter and send me off at once, for I long to
return and take your worship out of this purgatory where I am leaving
you.”
“Purgatory dost thou call it, Sancho?” said Don Quixote, “rather call
it hell, or even worse if there be anything worse.”
“For one who is in hell,” said Sancho, “_nulla est retentio_, as I have
heard say.”
“I do not understand what _retentio_ means,” said Don Quixote.
“_Retentio_,” answered Sancho, “means that whoever is in hell never
comes nor can come out of it, which will be the opposite case with your
worship or my legs will be idle, that is if I have spurs to enliven
Rocinante: let me once get to El Toboso and into the presence of my
lady Dulcinea, and I will tell her such things of the follies and
madnesses (for it is all one) that your worship has done and is still
doing, that I will manage to make her softer than a glove though I find
her harder than a cork tree; and with her sweet and honeyed answer I
will come back through the air like a witch, and take your worship out
of this purgatory that seems to be hell but is not, as there is hope of
getting out of it; which, as I have said, those in hell have not, and I
believe your worship will not say anything to the contrary.”
“That is true,” said he of the Rueful Countenance, “but how shall we
manage to write the letter?”
“And the ass-colt order too,” added Sancho.
“All shall be included,” said Don Quixote; “and as there is no paper,
it would be well done to write it on the leaves of trees, as the
ancients did, or on tablets of wax; though that would be as hard to
find just now as paper. But it has just occurred to me how it may be
conveniently and even more than conveniently written, and that is in
the notebook that belonged to Cardenio, and thou wilt take care to have
it copied on paper, in a good hand, at the first village thou comest to
where there is a schoolmaster, or if not, any sacristan will copy it;
but see thou give it not to any notary to copy, for they write a law
hand that Satan could not make out.”
“But what is to be done about the signature?” said Sancho.
“The letters of Amadis were never signed,” said Don Quixote.
“That is all very well,” said Sancho, “but the order must needs be
signed, and if it is copied they will say the signature is false, and I
shall be left without ass-colts.”
“The order shall go signed in the same book,” said Don Quixote, “and on
seeing it my niece will make no difficulty about obeying it; as to the
loveletter thou canst put by way of signature, ‘_Yours till death, the
Knight of the Rueful Countenance._’ And it will be no great matter if
it is in some other person’s hand, for as well as I recollect Dulcinea
can neither read nor write, nor in the whole course of her life has she
seen handwriting or letter of mine, for my love and hers have been
always platonic, not going beyond a modest look, and even that so
seldom that I can safely swear I have not seen her four times in all
these twelve years I have been loving her more than the light of these
eyes that the earth will one day devour; and perhaps even of those four
times she has not once perceived that I was looking at her: such is the
retirement and seclusion in which her father Lorenzo Corchuelo and her
mother Aldonza Nogales have brought her up.”
“So, so!” said Sancho; “Lorenzo Corchuelo’s daughter is the lady
Dulcinea del Toboso, otherwise called Aldonza Lorenzo?”
“She it is,” said Don Quixote, “and she it is that is worthy to be lady
of the whole universe.”
“I know her well,” said Sancho, “and let me tell you she can fling a
crowbar as well as the lustiest lad in all the town. Giver of all good!
but she is a brave lass, and a right and stout one, and fit to be
helpmate to any knight-errant that is or is to be, who may make her his
lady: the whoreson wench, what sting she has and what a voice! I can
tell you one day she posted herself on the top of the belfry of the
village to call some labourers of theirs that were in a ploughed field
of her father’s, and though they were better than half a league off
they heard her as well as if they were at the foot of the tower; and
the best of her is that she is not a bit prudish, for she has plenty of
affability, and jokes with everybody, and has a grin and a jest for
everything. So, Sir Knight of the Rueful Countenance, I say you not
only may and ought to do mad freaks for her sake, but you have a good
right to give way to despair and hang yourself; and no one who knows of
it but will say you did well, though the devil should take you; and I
wish I were on my road already, simply to see her, for it is many a day
since I saw her, and she must be altered by this time, for going about
the fields always, and the sun and the air spoil women’s looks greatly.
But I must own the truth to your worship, Señor Don Quixote; until now
I have been under a great mistake, for I believed truly and honestly
that the lady Dulcinea must be some princess your worship was in love
with, or some person great enough to deserve the rich presents you have
sent her, such as the Biscayan and the galley slaves, and many more no
doubt, for your worship must have won many victories in the time when I
was not yet your squire. But all things considered, what good can it do
the lady Aldonza Lorenzo, I mean the lady Dulcinea del Toboso, to have
the vanquished your worship sends or will send coming to her and going
down on their knees before her? Because maybe when they came she’d be
hackling flax or threshing on the threshing floor, and they’d be
ashamed to see her, and she’d laugh, or resent the present.”
“I have before now told thee many times, Sancho,” said Don Quixote,
“that thou art a mighty great chatterer, and that with a blunt wit thou
art always striving at sharpness; but to show thee what a fool thou art
and how rational I am, I would have thee listen to a short story. Thou
must know that a certain widow, fair, young, independent, and rich, and
above all free and easy, fell in love with a sturdy strapping young
lay-brother; his superior came to know of it, and one day said to the
worthy widow by way of brotherly remonstrance, ‘I am surprised, señora,
and not without good reason, that a woman of such high standing, so
fair, and so rich as you are, should have fallen in love with such a
mean, low, stupid fellow as So-and-so, when in this house there are so
many masters, graduates, and divinity students from among whom you
might choose as if they were a lot of pears, saying, ‘This one I’ll
take, that I won’t take;’ but she replied to him with great
sprightliness and candour, ‘My dear sir, you are very much mistaken,
and your ideas are very old-fashioned, if you think that I have made a
bad choice in So-and-so, fool as he seems; because for all I want with
him he knows as much and more philosophy than Aristotle.’ In the same
way, Sancho, for all I want with Dulcinea del Toboso she is just as
good as the most exalted princess on earth. It is not to be supposed
that all those poets who sang the praises of ladies under the fancy
names they give them, had any such mistresses. Thinkest thou that the
Amarillises, the Phillises, the Sylvias, the Dianas, the Galateas, the
Fílidas, and all the rest of them, that the books, the ballads, the
barber’s shops, the theatres are full of, were really and truly ladies
of flesh and blood, and mistresses of those that glorify and have
glorified them? Nothing of the kind; they only invent them for the most
part to furnish a subject for their verses, and that they may pass for
lovers, or for men valiant enough to be so; and so it suffices me to
think and believe that the good Aldonza Lorenzo is fair and virtuous;
and as to her pedigree it is very little matter, for no one will
examine into it for the purpose of conferring any order upon her, and
I, for my part, reckon her the most exalted princess in the world. For
thou shouldst know, Sancho, if thou dost not know, that two things
alone beyond all others are incentives to love, and these are great
beauty and a good name, and these two things are to be found in
Dulcinea in the highest degree, for in beauty no one equals her and in
good name few approach her; and to put the whole thing in a nutshell, I
persuade myself that all I say is as I say, neither more nor less, and
I picture her in my imagination as I would have her to be, as well in
beauty as in condition; Helen approaches her not nor does Lucretia come
up to her, nor any other of the famous women of times past, Greek,
Barbarian, or Latin; and let each say what he will, for if in this I am
taken to task by the ignorant, I shall not be censured by the
critical.”
“I say that your worship is entirely right,” said Sancho, “and that I
am an ass. But I know not how the name of ass came into my mouth, for a
rope is not to be mentioned in the house of him who has been hanged;
but now for the letter, and then, God be with you, I am off.”
Don Quixote took out the notebook, and, retiring to one side, very
deliberately began to write the letter, and when he had finished it he
called to Sancho, saying he wished to read it to him, so that he might
commit it to memory, in case of losing it on the road; for with evil
fortune like his anything might be apprehended. To which Sancho
replied, “Write it two or three times there in the book and give it to
me, and I will carry it very carefully, because to expect me to keep it
in my memory is all nonsense, for I have such a bad one that I often
forget my own name; but for all that repeat it to me, as I shall like
to hear it, for surely it will run as if it was in print.”
“Listen,” said Don Quixote, “this is what it says:
_“Don Quixote’s Letter to Dulcinea del Toboso_
“Sovereign and exalted Lady,—The pierced by the point of absence, the
wounded to the heart’s core, sends thee, sweetest Dulcinea del Toboso,
the health that he himself enjoys not. If thy beauty despises me, if
thy worth is not for me, if thy scorn is my affliction, though I be
sufficiently long-suffering, hardly shall I endure this anxiety, which,
besides being oppressive, is protracted. My good squire Sancho will
relate to thee in full, fair ingrate, dear enemy, the condition to
which I am reduced on thy account: if it be thy pleasure to give me
relief, I am thine; if not, do as may be pleasing to thee; for by
ending my life I shall satisfy thy cruelty and my desire.
“Thine till death,
“The Knight of the Rueful Countenance.”
“By the life of my father,” said Sancho, when he heard the letter, “it
is the loftiest thing I ever heard. Body of me! how your worship says
everything as you like in it! And how well you fit in ‘The Knight of
the Rueful Countenance’ into the signature. I declare your worship is
indeed the very devil, and there is nothing you don’t know.”
“Everything is needed for the calling I follow,” said Don Quixote.
“Now then,” said Sancho, “let your worship put the order for the three
ass-colts on the other side, and sign it very plainly, that they may
recognise it at first sight.”
“With all my heart,” said Don Quixote, and as he had written it he read
it to this effect:
“Mistress Niece,—By this first of ass-colts please pay to Sancho Panza,
my squire, three of the five I left at home in your charge: said three
ass-colts to be paid and delivered for the same number received here in
hand, which upon this and upon his receipt shall be duly paid. Done in
the heart of the Sierra Morena, the twenty-seventh of August of this
present year.”
“That will do,” said Sancho; “now let your worship sign it.”
“There is no need to sign it,” said Don Quixote, “but merely to put my
flourish, which is the same as a signature, and enough for three asses,
or even three hundred.”
“I can trust your worship,” returned Sancho; “let me go and saddle
Rocinante, and be ready to give me your blessing, for I mean to go at
once without seeing the fooleries your worship is going to do; I’ll say
I saw you do so many that she will not want any more.”
“At any rate, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “I should like—and there is
reason for it—I should like thee, I say, to see me stripped to the skin
and performing a dozen or two of insanities, which I can get done in
less than half an hour; for having seen them with thine own eyes, thou
canst then safely swear to the rest that thou wouldst add; and I
promise thee thou wilt not tell of as many as I mean to perform.”
“For the love of God, master mine,” said Sancho, “let me not see your
worship stripped, for it will sorely grieve me, and I shall not be able
to keep from tears, and my head aches so with all I shed last night for
Dapple, that I am not fit to begin any fresh weeping; but if it is your
worship’s pleasure that I should see some insanities, do them in your
clothes, short ones, and such as come readiest to hand; for I myself
want nothing of the sort, and, as I have said, it will be a saving of
time for my return, which will be with the news your worship desires
and deserves. If not, let the lady Dulcinea look to it; if she does not
answer reasonably, I swear as solemnly as I can that I will fetch a
fair answer out of her stomach with kicks and cuffs; for why should it
be borne that a knight-errant as famous as your worship should go mad
without rhyme or reason for a—? Her ladyship had best not drive me to
say it, for by God I will speak out and let off everything cheap, even
if it doesn’t sell: I am pretty good at that! she little knows me;
faith, if she knew me she’d be in awe of me.”
“In faith, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “to all appearance thou art no
sounder in thy wits than I.”
“I am not so mad,” answered Sancho, “but I am more peppery; but apart
from all this, what has your worship to eat until I come back? Will you
sally out on the road like Cardenio to force it from the shepherds?”
“Let not that anxiety trouble thee,” replied Don Quixote, “for even if
I had it I should not eat anything but the herbs and the fruits which
this meadow and these trees may yield me; the beauty of this business
of mine lies in not eating, and in performing other mortifications.”
“Do you know what I am afraid of?” said Sancho upon this; “that I shall
not be able to find my way back to this spot where I am leaving you, it
is such an out-of-the-way place.”
“Observe the landmarks well,” said Don Quixote, “for I will try not to
go far from this neighbourhood, and I will even take care to mount the
highest of these rocks to see if I can discover thee returning;
however, not to miss me and lose thyself, the best plan will be to cut
some branches of the broom that is so abundant about here, and as thou
goest to lay them at intervals until thou hast come out upon the plain;
these will serve thee, after the fashion of the clue in the labyrinth
of Theseus, as marks and signs for finding me on thy return.”
“So I will,” said Sancho Panza, and having cut some, he asked his
master’s blessing, and not without many tears on both sides, took his
leave of him, and mounting Rocinante, of whom Don Quixote charged him
earnestly to have as much care as of his own person, he set out for the
plain, strewing at intervals the branches of broom as his master had
recommended him; and so he went his way, though Don Quixote still
entreated him to see him do were it only a couple of mad acts. He had
not gone a hundred paces, however, when he returned and said:
“I must say, señor, your worship said quite right, that in order to be
able to swear without a weight on my conscience that I had seen you do
mad things, it would be well for me to see if it were only one; though
in your worship’s remaining here I have seen a very great one.”
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“Did I not tell thee so?” said Don Quixote. “Wait, Sancho, and I will
do them in the saying of a credo,” and pulling off his breeches in all
haste he stripped himself to his skin and his shirt, and then, without
more ado, he cut a couple of gambados in the air, and a couple of
somersaults, heels over head, making such a display that, not to see it
a second time, Sancho wheeled Rocinante round, and felt easy, and
satisfied in his mind that he could swear he had left his master mad;
and so we will leave him to follow his road until his return, which was
a quick one.
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CHAPTER XXVI.
IN WHICH ARE CONTINUED THE REFINEMENTS WHEREWITH DON QUIXOTE PLAYED THE
PART OF A LOVER IN THE SIERRA MORENA
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Returning to the proceedings of him of the Rueful Countenance when he
found himself alone, the history says that when Don Quixote had
completed the performance of the somersaults or capers, naked from the
waist down and clothed from the waist up, and saw that Sancho had gone
off without waiting to see any more crazy feats, he climbed up to the
top of a high rock, and there set himself to consider what he had
several times before considered without ever coming to any conclusion
on the point, namely whether it would be better and more to his purpose
to imitate the outrageous madness of Roland, or the melancholy madness
of Amadis; and communing with himself he said:
“What wonder is it if Roland was so good a knight and so valiant as
everyone says he was, when, after all, he was enchanted, and nobody
could kill him save by thrusting a corking pin into the sole of his
foot, and he always wore shoes with seven iron soles? Though cunning
devices did not avail him against Bernardo del Carpio, who knew all
about them, and strangled him in his arms at Roncesvalles. But putting
the question of his valour aside, let us come to his losing his wits,
for certain it is that he did lose them in consequence of the proofs he
discovered at the fountain, and the intelligence the shepherd gave him
of Angelica having slept more than two siestas with Medoro, a little
curly-headed Moor, and page to Agramante. If he was persuaded that this
was true, and that his lady had wronged him, it is no wonder that he
should have gone mad; but I, how am I to imitate him in his madness,
unless I can imitate him in the cause of it? For my Dulcinea, I will
venture to swear, never saw a Moor in her life, as he is, in his proper
costume, and she is this day as the mother that bore her, and I should
plainly be doing her a wrong if, fancying anything else, I were to go
mad with the same kind of madness as Roland the Furious. On the other
hand, I see that Amadis of Gaul, without losing his senses and without
doing anything mad, acquired as a lover as much fame as the most
famous; for, according to his history, on finding himself rejected by
his lady Oriana, who had ordered him not to appear in her presence
until it should be her pleasure, all he did was to retire to the Peña
Pobre in company with a hermit, and there he took his fill of weeping
until Heaven sent him relief in the midst of his great grief and need.
And if this be true, as it is, why should I now take the trouble to
strip stark naked, or do mischief to these trees which have done me no
harm, or why am I to disturb the clear waters of these brooks which
will give me to drink whenever I have a mind? Long live the memory of
Amadis and let him be imitated so far as is possible by Don Quixote of
La Mancha, of whom it will be said, as was said of the other, that if
he did not achieve great things, he died in attempting them; and if I
am not repulsed or rejected by my Dulcinea, it is enough for me, as I
have said, to be absent from her. And so, now to business; come to my
memory ye deeds of Amadis, and show me how I am to begin to imitate
you. I know already that what he chiefly did was to pray and commend
himself to God; but what am I to do for a rosary, for I have not got
one?”
And then it occurred to him how he might make one, and that was by
tearing a great strip off the tail of his shirt which hung down, and
making eleven knots on it, one bigger than the rest, and this served
him for a rosary all the time he was there, during which he repeated
countless ave-marias. But what distressed him greatly was not having
another hermit there to confess him and receive consolation from; and
so he solaced himself with pacing up and down the little meadow, and
writing and carving on the bark of the trees and on the fine sand a
multitude of verses all in harmony with his sadness, and some in praise
of Dulcinea; but, when he was found there afterwards, the only ones
completely legible that could be discovered were those that follow
here:
Ye on the mountainside that grow,
Ye green things all, trees, shrubs, and bushes,
Are ye aweary of the woe
That this poor aching bosom crushes?
If it disturb you, and I owe
Some reparation, it may be a
Defence for me to let you know
Don Quixote’s tears are on the flow,
And all for distant Dulcinea
Del Toboso.
The lealest lover time can show,
Doomed for a lady-love to languish,
Among these solitudes doth go,
A prey to every kind of anguish.
Why Love should like a spiteful foe
Thus use him, he hath no idea,
But hogsheads full—this doth he know—
Don Quixote’s tears are on the flow,
And all for distant Dulcinea
Del Toboso.
Adventure-seeking doth he go
Up rugged heights, down rocky valleys,
But hill or dale, or high or low,
Mishap attendeth all his sallies:
Love still pursues him to and fro,
And plies his cruel scourge—ah me! a
Relentless fate, an endless woe;
Don Quixote’s tears are on the flow,
And all for distant Dulcinea
Del Toboso.
The addition of “Del Toboso” to Dulcinea’s name gave rise to no little
laughter among those who found the above lines, for they suspected Don
Quixote must have fancied that unless he added “del Toboso” when he
introduced the name of Dulcinea the verse would be unintelligible;
which was indeed the fact, as he himself afterwards admitted. He wrote
many more, but, as has been said, these three verses were all that
could be plainly and perfectly deciphered. In this way, and in sighing
and calling on the fauns and satyrs of the woods and the nymphs of the
streams, and Echo, moist and mournful, to answer, console, and hear
him, as well as in looking for herbs to sustain him, he passed his time
until Sancho’s return; and had that been delayed three weeks, as it was
three days, the Knight of the Rueful Countenance would have worn such
an altered countenance that the mother that bore him would not have
known him: and here it will be well to leave him, wrapped up in sighs
and verses, to relate how Sancho Panza fared on his mission.
As for him, coming out upon the high road, he made for El Toboso, and
the next day reached the inn where the mishap of the blanket had
befallen him. As soon as he recognised it he felt as if he were once
more living through the air, and he could not bring himself to enter it
though it was an hour when he might well have done so, for it was
dinner-time, and he longed to taste something hot as it had been all
cold fare with him for many days past. This craving drove him to draw
near to the inn, still undecided whether to go in or not, and as he was
hesitating there came out two persons who at once recognised him, and
said one to the other:
“Señor licentiate, is not he on the horse there Sancho Panza who, our
adventurer’s housekeeper told us, went off with her master as esquire?”
“So it is,” said the licentiate, “and that is our friend Don Quixote’s
horse;” and if they knew him so well it was because they were the
curate and the barber of his own village, the same who had carried out
the scrutiny and sentence upon the books; and as soon as they
recognised Sancho Panza and Rocinante, being anxious to hear of Don
Quixote, they approached, and calling him by his name the curate said,
“Friend Sancho Panza, where is your master?”
Sancho recognised them at once, and determined to keep secret the place
and circumstances where and under which he had left his master, so he
replied that his master was engaged in a certain quarter on a certain
matter of great importance to him which he could not disclose for the
eyes in his head.
“Nay, nay,” said the barber, “if you don’t tell us where he is, Sancho
Panza, we will suspect as we suspect already, that you have murdered
and robbed him, for here you are mounted on his horse; in fact, you
must produce the master of the hack, or else take the consequences.”
“There is no need of threats with me,” said Sancho, “for I am not a man
to rob or murder anybody; let his own fate, or God who made him, kill
each one; my master is engaged very much to his taste doing penance in
the midst of these mountains;” and then, offhand and without stopping,
he told them how he had left him, what adventures had befallen him, and
how he was carrying a letter to the lady Dulcinea del Toboso, the
daughter of Lorenzo Corchuelo, with whom he was over head and ears in
love. They were both amazed at what Sancho Panza told them; for though
they were aware of Don Quixote’s madness and the nature of it, each
time they heard of it they were filled with fresh wonder. They then
asked Sancho Panza to show them the letter he was carrying to the lady
Dulcinea del Toboso. He said it was written in a notebook, and that his
master’s directions were that he should have it copied on paper at the
first village he came to. On this the curate said if he showed it to
him, he himself would make a fair copy of it. Sancho put his hand into
his bosom in search of the notebook but could not find it, nor, if he
had been searching until now, could he have found it, for Don Quixote
had kept it, and had never given it to him, nor had he himself thought
of asking for it. When Sancho discovered he could not find the book his
face grew deadly pale, and in great haste he again felt his body all
over, and seeing plainly it was not to be found, without more ado he
seized his beard with both hands and plucked away half of it, and then,
as quick as he could and without stopping, gave himself half a dozen
cuffs on the face and nose till they were bathed in blood.
Seeing this, the curate and the barber asked him what had happened him
that he gave himself such rough treatment.
“What should happen to me?” replied Sancho, “but to have lost from one
hand to the other, in a moment, three ass-colts, each of them like a
castle?”
“How is that?” said the barber.
“I have lost the notebook,” said Sancho, “that contained the letter to
Dulcinea, and an order signed by my master in which he directed his
niece to give me three ass-colts out of four or five he had at home;”
and he then told them about the loss of Dapple.
The curate consoled him, telling him that when his master was found he
would get him to renew the order, and make a fresh draft on paper, as
was usual and customary; for those made in notebooks were never
accepted or honoured.
Sancho comforted himself with this, and said if that were so the loss
of Dulcinea’s letter did not trouble him much, for he had it almost by
heart, and it could be taken down from him wherever and whenever they
liked.
“Repeat it then, Sancho,” said the barber, “and we will write it down
afterwards.”
Sancho Panza stopped to scratch his head to bring back the letter to
his memory, and balanced himself now on one foot, now the other, one
moment staring at the ground, the next at the sky, and after having
half gnawed off the end of a finger and kept them in suspense waiting
for him to begin, he said, after a long pause, “By God, señor
licentiate, devil a thing can I recollect of the letter; but it said at
the beginning, ‘Exalted and scrubbing Lady.’”
“It cannot have said ‘scrubbing,’” said the barber, “but ‘superhuman’
or ‘sovereign.’”
“That is it,” said Sancho; “then, as well as I remember, it went on,
‘The wounded, and wanting of sleep, and the pierced, kisses your
worship’s hands, ungrateful and very unrecognised fair one; and it said
something or other about health and sickness that he was sending her;
and from that it went tailing off until it ended with ‘Yours till
death, the Knight of the Rueful Countenance.’”
It gave them no little amusement, both of them, to see what a good
memory Sancho had, and they complimented him greatly upon it, and
begged him to repeat the letter a couple of times more, so that they
too might get it by heart to write it out by-and-by. Sancho repeated it
three times, and as he did, uttered three thousand more absurdities;
then he told them more about his master but he never said a word about
the blanketing that had befallen himself in that inn, into which he
refused to enter. He told them, moreover, how his lord, if he brought
him a favourable answer from the lady Dulcinea del Toboso, was to put
himself in the way of endeavouring to become an emperor, or at least a
monarch; for it had been so settled between them, and with his personal
worth and the might of his arm it was an easy matter to come to be one:
and how on becoming one his lord was to make a marriage for him (for he
would be a widower by that time, as a matter of course) and was to give
him as a wife one of the damsels of the empress, the heiress of some
rich and grand state on the mainland, having nothing to do with islands
of any sort, for he did not care for them now. All this Sancho
delivered with so much composure—wiping his nose from time to time—and
with so little common-sense that his two hearers were again filled with
wonder at the force of Don Quixote’s madness that could run away with
this poor man’s reason. They did not care to take the trouble of
disabusing him of his error, as they considered that since it did not
in any way hurt his conscience it would be better to leave him in it,
and they would have all the more amusement in listening to his
simplicities; and so they bade him pray to God for his lord’s health,
as it was a very likely and a very feasible thing for him in course of
time to come to be an emperor, as he said, or at least an archbishop or
some other dignitary of equal rank.
To which Sancho made answer, “If fortune, sirs, should bring things
about in such a way that my master should have a mind, instead of being
an emperor, to be an archbishop, I should like to know what
archbishops-errant commonly give their squires?”
“They commonly give them,” said the curate, some simple benefice or
cure, or some place as sacristan which brings them a good fixed income,
not counting the altar fees, which may be reckoned at as much more.”
“But for that,” said Sancho, “the squire must be unmarried, and must
know, at any rate, how to help at mass, and if that be so, woe is me,
for I am married already and I don’t know the first letter of the A B
C. What will become of me if my master takes a fancy to be an
archbishop and not an emperor, as is usual and customary with
knights-errant?”
“Be not uneasy, friend Sancho,” said the barber, “for we will entreat
your master, and advise him, even urging it upon him as a case of
conscience, to become an emperor and not an archbishop, because it will
be easier for him as he is more valiant than lettered.”
“So I have thought,” said Sancho; “though I can tell you he is fit for
anything: what I mean to do for my part is to pray to our Lord to place
him where it may be best for him, and where he may be able to bestow
most favours upon me.”
“You speak like a man of sense,” said the curate, “and you will be
acting like a good Christian; but what must now be done is to take
steps to coax your master out of that useless penance you say he is
performing; and we had best turn into this inn to consider what plan to
adopt, and also to dine, for it is now time.”
Sancho said they might go in, but that he would wait there outside, and
that he would tell them afterwards the reason why he was unwilling, and
why it did not suit him to enter it; but he begged them to bring him
out something to eat, and to let it be hot, and also to bring barley
for Rocinante. They left him and went in, and presently the barber
brought him out something to eat. By-and-by, after they had between
them carefully thought over what they should do to carry out their
object, the curate hit upon an idea very well adapted to humour Don
Quixote, and effect their purpose; and his notion, which he explained
to the barber, was that he himself should assume the disguise of a
wandering damsel, while the other should try as best he could to pass
for a squire, and that they should thus proceed to where Don Quixote
was, and he, pretending to be an aggrieved and distressed damsel,
should ask a favour of him, which as a valiant knight-errant he could
not refuse to grant; and the favour he meant to ask him was that he
should accompany her whither she would conduct him, in order to redress
a wrong which a wicked knight had done her, while at the same time she
should entreat him not to require her to remove her mask, nor ask her
any question touching her circumstances until he had righted her with
the wicked knight. And he had no doubt that Don Quixote would comply
with any request made in these terms, and that in this way they might
remove him and take him to his own village, where they would endeavour
to find out if his extraordinary madness admitted of any kind of
remedy.
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CHAPTER XXVII.
OF HOW THE CURATE AND THE BARBER PROCEEDED WITH THEIR SCHEME; TOGETHER
WITH OTHER MATTERS WORTHY OF RECORD IN THIS GREAT HISTORY
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The curate’s plan did not seem a bad one to the barber, but on the
contrary so good that they immediately set about putting it in
execution. They begged a petticoat and hood of the landlady, leaving
her in pledge a new cassock of the curate’s; and the barber made a
beard out of a grey-brown or red ox-tail in which the landlord used to
stick his comb. The landlady asked them what they wanted these things
for, and the curate told her in a few words about the madness of Don
Quixote, and how this disguise was intended to get him away from the
mountain where he then was. The landlord and landlady immediately came
to the conclusion that the madman was their guest, the balsam man and
master of the blanketed squire, and they told the curate all that had
passed between him and them, not omitting what Sancho had been so
silent about. Finally the landlady dressed up the curate in a style
that left nothing to be desired; she put on him a cloth petticoat with
black velvet stripes a palm broad, all slashed, and a bodice of green
velvet set off by a binding of white satin, which as well as the
petticoat must have been made in the time of king Wamba. The curate
would not let them hood him, but put on his head a little quilted linen
cap which he used for a night-cap, and bound his forehead with a strip
of black silk, while with another he made a mask with which he
concealed his beard and face very well. He then put on his hat, which
was broad enough to serve him for an umbrella, and enveloping himself
in his cloak seated himself woman-fashion on his mule, while the barber
mounted his with a beard down to the waist of mingled red and white,
for it was, as has been said, the tail of a clay-red ox.
They took leave of all, and of the good Maritornes, who, sinner as she
was, promised to pray a rosary of prayers that God might grant them
success in such an arduous and Christian undertaking as that they had
in hand. But hardly had he sallied forth from the inn when it struck
the curate that he was doing wrong in rigging himself out in that
fashion, as it was an indecorous thing for a priest to dress himself
that way even though much might depend upon it; and saying so to the
barber he begged him to change dresses, as it was fitter he should be
the distressed damsel, while he himself would play the squire’s part,
which would be less derogatory to his dignity; otherwise he was
resolved to have nothing more to do with the matter, and let the devil
take Don Quixote. Just at this moment Sancho came up, and on seeing the
pair in such a costume he was unable to restrain his laughter; the
barber, however, agreed to do as the curate wished, and, altering their
plan, the curate went on to instruct him how to play his part and what
to say to Don Quixote to induce and compel him to come with them and
give up his fancy for the place he had chosen for his idle penance. The
barber told him he could manage it properly without any instruction,
and as he did not care to dress himself up until they were near where
Don Quixote was, he folded up the garments, and the curate adjusted his
beard, and they set out under the guidance of Sancho Panza, who went
along telling them of the encounter with the madman they met in the
Sierra, saying nothing, however, about the finding of the valise and
its contents; for with all his simplicity the lad was a trifle
covetous.
The next day they reached the place where Sancho had laid the
broom-branches as marks to direct him to where he had left his master,
and recognising it he told them that here was the entrance, and that
they would do well to dress themselves, if that was required to deliver
his master; for they had already told him that going in this guise and
dressing in this way were of the highest importance in order to rescue
his master from the pernicious life he had adopted; and they charged
him strictly not to tell his master who they were, or that he knew
them, and should he ask, as ask he would, if he had given the letter to
Dulcinea, to say that he had, and that, as she did not know how to
read, she had given an answer by word of mouth, saying that she
commanded him, on pain of her displeasure, to come and see her at once;
and it was a very important matter for himself, because in this way and
with what they meant to say to him they felt sure of bringing him back
to a better mode of life and inducing him to take immediate steps to
become an emperor or monarch, for there was no fear of his becoming an
archbishop. All this Sancho listened to and fixed it well in his
memory, and thanked them heartily for intending to recommend his master
to be an emperor instead of an archbishop, for he felt sure that in the
way of bestowing rewards on their squires emperors could do more than
archbishops-errant. He said, too, that it would be as well for him to
go on before them to find him, and give him his lady’s answer; for that
perhaps might be enough to bring him away from the place without
putting them to all this trouble. They approved of what Sancho
proposed, and resolved to wait for him until he brought back word of
having found his master.
Sancho pushed on into the glens of the Sierra, leaving them in one
through which there flowed a little gentle rivulet, and where the rocks
and trees afforded a cool and grateful shade. It was an August day with
all the heat of one, and the heat in those parts is intense, and the
hour was three in the afternoon, all which made the spot the more
inviting and tempted them to wait there for Sancho’s return, which they
did. They were reposing, then, in the shade, when a voice unaccompanied
by the notes of any instrument, but sweet and pleasing in its tone,
reached their ears, at which they were not a little astonished, as the
place did not seem to them likely quarters for one who sang so well;
for though it is often said that shepherds of rare voice are to be
found in the woods and fields, this is rather a flight of the poet’s
fancy than the truth. And still more surprised were they when they
perceived that what they heard sung were the verses not of rustic
shepherds, but of the polished wits of the city; and so it proved, for
the verses they heard were these:
What makes my quest of happiness seem vain?
Disdain.
What bids me to abandon hope of ease?
Jealousies.
What holds my heart in anguish of suspense?
Absence.
If that be so, then for my grief
Where shall I turn to seek relief,
When hope on every side lies slain
By Absence, Jealousies, Disdain?
What the prime cause of all my woe doth prove?
Love.
What at my glory ever looks askance?
Chance.
Whence is permission to afflict me given?
Heaven.
If that be so, I but await
The stroke of a resistless fate,
Since, working for my woe, these three,
Love, Chance and Heaven, in league I see.
What must I do to find a remedy?
Die.
What is the lure for love when coy and strange?
Change.
What, if all fail, will cure the heart of sadness?
Madness.
If that be so, it is but folly
To seek a cure for melancholy:
Ask where it lies; the answer saith
In Change, in Madness, or in Death.
The hour, the summer season, the solitary place, the voice and skill of
the singer, all contributed to the wonder and delight of the two
listeners, who remained still waiting to hear something more; finding,
however, that the silence continued some little time, they resolved to
go in search of the musician who sang with so fine a voice; but just as
they were about to do so they were checked by the same voice, which
once more fell upon their ears, singing this
SONNET
When heavenward, holy Friendship, thou didst go
Soaring to seek thy home beyond the sky,
And take thy seat among the saints on high,
It was thy will to leave on earth below
Thy semblance, and upon it to bestow
Thy veil, wherewith at times hypocrisy,
Parading in thy shape, deceives the eye,
And makes its vileness bright as virtue show.
Friendship, return to us, or force the cheat
That wears it now, thy livery to restore,
By aid whereof sincerity is slain.
If thou wilt not unmask thy counterfeit,
This earth will be the prey of strife once more,
As when primæval discord held its reign.
The song ended with a deep sigh, and again the listeners remained
waiting attentively for the singer to resume; but perceiving that the
music had now turned to sobs and heart-rending moans they determined to
find out who the unhappy being could be whose voice was as rare as his
sighs were piteous, and they had not proceeded far when on turning the
corner of a rock they discovered a man of the same aspect and
appearance as Sancho had described to them when he told them the story
of Cardenio. He, showing no astonishment when he saw them, stood still
with his head bent down upon his breast like one in deep thought,
without raising his eyes to look at them after the first glance when
they suddenly came upon him. The curate, who was aware of his
misfortune and recognised him by the description, being a man of good
address, approached him and in a few sensible words entreated and urged
him to quit a life of such misery, lest he should end it there, which
would be the greatest of all misfortunes. Cardenio was then in his
right mind, free from any attack of that madness which so frequently
carried him away, and seeing them dressed in a fashion so unusual among
the frequenters of those wilds, could not help showing some surprise,
especially when he heard them speak of his case as if it were a
well-known matter (for the curate’s words gave him to understand as
much) so he replied to them thus:
“I see plainly, sirs, whoever you may be, that Heaven, whose care it is
to succour the good, and even the wicked very often, here, in this
remote spot, cut off from human intercourse, sends me, though I deserve
it not, those who seek to draw me away from this to some better
retreat, showing me by many and forcible arguments how unreasonably I
act in leading the life I do; but as they know, that if I escape from
this evil I shall fall into another still greater, perhaps they will
set me down as a weak-minded man, or, what is worse, one devoid of
reason; nor would it be any wonder, for I myself can perceive that the
effect of the recollection of my misfortunes is so great and works so
powerfully to my ruin, that in spite of myself I become at times like a
stone, without feeling or consciousness; and I come to feel the truth
of it when they tell me and show me proofs of the things I have done
when the terrible fit overmasters me; and all I can do is bewail my lot
in vain, and idly curse my destiny, and plead for my madness by telling
how it was caused, to any that care to hear it; for no reasonable
beings on learning the cause will wonder at the effects; and if they
cannot help me at least they will not blame me, and the repugnance they
feel at my wild ways will turn into pity for my woes. If it be, sirs,
that you are here with the same design as others have come with, before
you proceed with your wise arguments, I entreat you to hear the story
of my countless misfortunes, for perhaps when you have heard it you
will spare yourselves the trouble you would take in offering
consolation to grief that is beyond the reach of it.”
As they, both of them, desired nothing more than to hear from his own
lips the cause of his suffering, they entreated him to tell it,
promising not to do anything for his relief or comfort that he did not
wish; and thereupon the unhappy gentleman began his sad story in nearly
the same words and manner in which he had related it to Don Quixote and
the goatherd a few days before, when, through Master Elisabad, and Don
Quixote’s scrupulous observance of what was due to chivalry, the tale
was left unfinished, as this history has already recorded; but now
fortunately the mad fit kept off, allowed him to tell it to the end;
and so, coming to the incident of the note which Don Fernando had found
in the volume of “Amadis of Gaul,” Cardenio said that he remembered it
perfectly and that it was in these words:
“_Luscinda to Cardenio._
“Every day I discover merits in you that oblige and compel me to hold
you in higher estimation; so if you desire to relieve me of this
obligation without cost to my honour, you may easily do so. I have a
father who knows you and loves me dearly, who without putting any
constraint on my inclination will grant what will be reasonable for you
to have, if it be that you value me as you say and as I believe you
do.”
“By this letter I was induced, as I told you, to demand Luscinda for my
wife, and it was through it that Luscinda came to be regarded by Don
Fernando as one of the most discreet and prudent women of the day, and
this letter it was that suggested his design of ruining me before mine
could be carried into effect. I told Don Fernando that all Luscinda’s
father was waiting for was that mine should ask her of him, which I did
not dare to suggest to him, fearing that he would not consent to do so;
not because he did not know perfectly well the rank, goodness, virtue,
and beauty of Luscinda, and that she had qualities that would do honour
to any family in Spain, but because I was aware that he did not wish me
to marry so soon, before seeing what the Duke Ricardo would do for me.
In short, I told him I did not venture to mention it to my father, as
well on account of that difficulty, as of many others that discouraged
me though I knew not well what they were, only that it seemed to me
that what I desired was never to come to pass. To all this Don Fernando
answered that he would take it upon himself to speak to my father, and
persuade him to speak to Luscinda’s father. O, ambitious Marius! O,
cruel Catiline! O, wicked Sylla! O, perfidious Ganelon! O, treacherous
Vellido! O, vindictive Julian! O, covetous Judas! Traitor, cruel,
vindictive, and perfidious, wherein had this poor wretch failed in his
fidelity, who with such frankness showed thee the secrets and the joys
of his heart? What offence did I commit? What words did I utter, or
what counsels did I give that had not the furtherance of thy honour and
welfare for their aim? But, woe is me, wherefore do I complain? for
sure it is that when misfortunes spring from the stars, descending from
on high they fall upon us with such fury and violence that no power on
earth can check their course nor human device stay their coming. Who
could have thought that Don Fernando, a highborn gentleman,
intelligent, bound to me by gratitude for my services, one that could
win the object of his love wherever he might set his affections, could
have become so obdurate, as they say, as to rob me of my one ewe lamb
that was not even yet in my possession? But laying aside these useless
and unavailing reflections, let us take up the broken thread of my
unhappy story.
“To proceed, then: Don Fernando finding my presence an obstacle to the
execution of his treacherous and wicked design, resolved to send me to
his elder brother under the pretext of asking money from him to pay for
six horses which, purposely, and with the sole object of sending me
away that he might the better carry out his infernal scheme, he had
purchased the very day he offered to speak to my father, and the price
of which he now desired me to fetch. Could I have anticipated this
treachery? Could I by any chance have suspected it? Nay; so far from
that, I offered with the greatest pleasure to go at once, in my
satisfaction at the good bargain that had been made. That night I spoke
with Luscinda, and told her what had been agreed upon with Don
Fernando, and how I had strong hopes of our fair and reasonable wishes
being realised. She, as unsuspicious as I was of the treachery of Don
Fernando, bade me try to return speedily, as she believed the
fulfilment of our desires would be delayed only so long as my father
put off speaking to hers. I know not why it was that on saying this to
me her eyes filled with tears, and there came a lump in her throat that
prevented her from uttering a word of many more that it seemed to me
she was striving to say to me. I was astonished at this unusual turn,
which I never before observed in her, for we always conversed, whenever
good fortune and my ingenuity gave us the chance, with the greatest
gaiety and cheerfulness, mingling tears, sighs, jealousies, doubts, or
fears with our words; it was all on my part a eulogy of my good fortune
that Heaven should have given her to me for my mistress; I glorified
her beauty, I extolled her worth and her understanding; and she paid me
back by praising in me what in her love for me she thought worthy of
praise; and besides we had a hundred thousand trifles and doings of our
neighbours and acquaintances to talk about, and the utmost extent of my
boldness was to take, almost by force, one of her fair white hands and
carry it to my lips, as well as the closeness of the low grating that
separated us allowed me. But the night before the unhappy day of my
departure she wept, she moaned, she sighed, and she withdrew leaving me
filled with perplexity and amazement, overwhelmed at the sight of such
strange and affecting signs of grief and sorrow in Luscinda; but not to
dash my hopes I ascribed it all to the depth of her love for me and the
pain that separation gives those who love tenderly. At last I took my
departure, sad and dejected, my heart filled with fancies and
suspicions, but not knowing well what it was I suspected or fancied;
plain omens pointing to the sad event and misfortune that was awaiting
me.
“I reached the place whither I had been sent, gave the letter to Don
Fernando’s brother, and was kindly received but not promptly dismissed,
for he desired me to wait, very much against my will, eight days in
some place where the duke his father was not likely to see me, as his
brother wrote that the money was to be sent without his knowledge; all
of which was a scheme of the treacherous Don Fernando, for his brother
had no want of money to enable him to despatch me at once.
“The command was one that exposed me to the temptation of disobeying
it, as it seemed to me impossible to endure life for so many days
separated from Luscinda, especially after leaving her in the sorrowful
mood I have described to you; nevertheless as a dutiful servant I
obeyed, though I felt it would be at the cost of my well-being. But
four days later there came a man in quest of me with a letter which he
gave me, and which by the address I perceived to be from Luscinda, as
the writing was hers. I opened it with fear and trepidation, persuaded
that it must be something serious that had impelled her to write to me
when at a distance, as she seldom did so when I was near. Before
reading it I asked the man who it was that had given it to him, and how
long he had been upon the road; he told me that as he happened to be
passing through one of the streets of the city at the hour of noon, a
very beautiful lady called to him from a window, and with tears in her
eyes said to him hurriedly, ‘Brother, if you are, as you seem to be, a
Christian, for the love of God I entreat you to have this letter
despatched without a moment’s delay to the place and person named in
the address, all which is well known, and by this you will render a
great service to our Lord; and that you may be at no inconvenience in
doing so take what is in this handkerchief;’ and said he, ‘with this
she threw me a handkerchief out of the window in which were tied up a
hundred reals and this gold ring which I bring here together with the
letter I have given you. And then without waiting for any answer she
left the window, though not before she saw me take the letter and the
handkerchief, and I had by signs let her know that I would do as she
bade me; and so, seeing myself so well paid for the trouble I would
have in bringing it to you, and knowing by the address that it was to
you it was sent (for, señor, I know you very well), and also unable to
resist that beautiful lady’s tears, I resolved to trust no one else,
but to come myself and give it to you, and in sixteen hours from the
time when it was given me I have made the journey, which, as you know,
is eighteen leagues.’
“All the while the good-natured improvised courier was telling me this,
I hung upon his words, my legs trembling under me so that I could
scarcely stand. However, I opened the letter and read these words:
The promise Don Fernando gave you to urge your father to speak to mine,
he has fulfilled much more to his own satisfaction than to your
advantage. I have to tell you, señor, that he has demanded me for a
wife, and my father, led away by what he considers Don Fernando’s
superiority over you, has favoured his suit so cordially, that in two
days hence the betrothal is to take place with such secrecy and so
privately that the only witnesses are to be the Heavens above and a few
of the household. Picture to yourself the state I am in; judge if it be
urgent for you to come; the issue of the affair will show you whether I
love you or not. God grant this may come to your hand before mine shall
be forced to link itself with his who keeps so ill the faith that he
has pledged.
“Such, in brief, were the words of the letter, words that made me set
out at once without waiting any longer for reply or money; for I now
saw clearly that it was not the purchase of horses but of his own
pleasure that had made Don Fernando send me to his brother. The
exasperation I felt against Don Fernando, joined with the fear of
losing the prize I had won by so many years of love and devotion, lent
me wings; so that almost flying I reached home the same day, by the
hour which served for speaking with Luscinda. I arrived unobserved, and
left the mule on which I had come at the house of the worthy man who
had brought me the letter, and fortune was pleased to be for once so
kind that I found Luscinda at the grating that was the witness of our
loves. She recognised me at once, and I her, but not as she ought to
have recognised me, or I her. But who is there in the world that can
boast of having fathomed or understood the wavering mind and unstable
nature of a woman? Of a truth no one. To proceed: as soon as Luscinda
saw me she said, ‘Cardenio, I am in my bridal dress, and the
treacherous Don Fernando and my covetous father are waiting for me in
the hall with the other witnesses, who shall be the witnesses of my
death before they witness my betrothal. Be not distressed, my friend,
but contrive to be present at this sacrifice, and if that cannot be
prevented by my words, I have a dagger concealed which will prevent
more deliberate violence, putting an end to my life and giving thee a
first proof of the love I have borne and bear thee.’ I replied to her
distractedly and hastily, in fear lest I should not have time to reply,
‘May thy words be verified by thy deeds, lady; and if thou hast a
dagger to save thy honour, I have a sword to defend thee or kill myself
if fortune be against us.’
“I think she could not have heard all these words, for I perceived that
they called her away in haste, as the bridegroom was waiting. Now the
night of my sorrow set in, the sun of my happiness went down, I felt my
eyes bereft of sight, my mind of reason. I could not enter the house,
nor was I capable of any movement; but reflecting how important it was
that I should be present at what might take place on the occasion, I
nerved myself as best I could and went in, for I well knew all the
entrances and outlets; and besides, with the confusion that in secret
pervaded the house no one took notice of me, so, without being seen, I
found an opportunity of placing myself in the recess formed by a window
of the hall itself, and concealed by the ends and borders of two
tapestries, from between which I could, without being seen, see all
that took place in the room. Who could describe the agitation of heart
I suffered as I stood there—the thoughts that came to me—the
reflections that passed through my mind? They were such as cannot be,
nor were it well they should be, told. Suffice it to say that the
bridegroom entered the hall in his usual dress, without ornament of any
kind; as groomsman he had with him a cousin of Luscinda’s and except
the servants of the house there was no one else in the chamber. Soon
afterwards Luscinda came out from an antechamber, attended by her
mother and two of her damsels, arrayed and adorned as became her rank
and beauty, and in full festival and ceremonial attire. My anxiety and
distraction did not allow me to observe or notice particularly what she
wore; I could only perceive the colours, which were crimson and white,
and the glitter of the gems and jewels on her head dress and apparel,
surpassed by the rare beauty of her lovely auburn hair that vying with
the precious stones and the light of the four torches that stood in the
hall shone with a brighter gleam than all. Oh memory, mortal foe of my
peace! why bring before me now the incomparable beauty of that adored
enemy of mine? Were it not better, cruel memory, to remind me and
recall what she then did, that stirred by a wrong so glaring I may
seek, if not vengeance now, at least to rid myself of life? Be not
weary, sirs, of listening to these digressions; my sorrow is not one of
those that can or should be told tersely and briefly, for to me each
incident seems to call for many words.”
To this the curate replied that not only were they not weary of
listening to him, but that the details he mentioned interested them
greatly, being of a kind by no means to be omitted and deserving of the
same attention as the main story.
“To proceed, then,” continued Cardenio: “all being assembled in the
hall, the priest of the parish came in and as he took the pair by the
hand to perform the requisite ceremony, at the words, ‘Will you, Señora
Luscinda, take Señor Don Fernando, here present, for your lawful
husband, as the holy Mother Church ordains?’ I thrust my head and neck
out from between the tapestries, and with eager ears and throbbing
heart set myself to listen to Luscinda’s answer, awaiting in her reply
the sentence of death or the grant of life. Oh, that I had but dared at
that moment to rush forward crying aloud, ‘Luscinda, Luscinda! have a
care what thou dost; remember what thou owest me; bethink thee thou art
mine and canst not be another’s; reflect that thy utterance of “Yes”
and the end of my life will come at the same instant. O, treacherous
Don Fernando! robber of my glory, death of my life! What seekest thou?
Remember that thou canst not as a Christian attain the object of thy
wishes, for Luscinda is my bride, and I am her husband!’ Fool that I
am! now that I am far away, and out of danger, I say I should have done
what I did not do: now that I have allowed my precious treasure to be
robbed from me, I curse the robber, on whom I might have taken
vengeance had I as much heart for it as I have for bewailing my fate;
in short, as I was then a coward and a fool, little wonder is it if I
am now dying shame-stricken, remorseful, and mad.
“The priest stood waiting for the answer of Luscinda, who for a long
time withheld it; and just as I thought she was taking out the dagger
to save her honour, or struggling for words to make some declaration of
the truth on my behalf, I heard her say in a faint and feeble voice, ‘I
will:’ Don Fernando said the same, and giving her the ring they stood
linked by a knot that could never be loosed. The bridegroom then
approached to embrace his bride; and she, pressing her hand upon her
heart, fell fainting in her mother’s arms. It only remains now for me
to tell you the state I was in when in that consent that I heard I saw
all my hopes mocked, the words and promises of Luscinda proved
falsehoods, and the recovery of the prize I had that instant lost
rendered impossible for ever. I stood stupefied, wholly abandoned, it
seemed, by Heaven, declared the enemy of the earth that bore me, the
air refusing me breath for my sighs, the water moisture for my tears;
it was only the fire that gathered strength so that my whole frame
glowed with rage and jealousy. They were all thrown into confusion by
Luscinda’s fainting, and as her mother was unlacing her to give her air
a sealed paper was discovered in her bosom which Don Fernando seized at
once and began to read by the light of one of the torches. As soon as
he had read it he seated himself in a chair, leaning his cheek on his
hand in the attitude of one deep in thought, without taking any part in
the efforts that were being made to recover his bride from her fainting
fit.
“Seeing all the household in confusion, I ventured to come out
regardless whether I were seen or not, and determined, if I were, to do
some frenzied deed that would prove to all the world the righteous
indignation of my breast in the punishment of the treacherous Don
Fernando, and even in that of the fickle fainting traitress. But my
fate, doubtless reserving me for greater sorrows, if such there be, so
ordered it that just then I had enough and to spare of that reason
which has since been wanting to me; and so, without seeking to take
vengeance on my greatest enemies (which might have been easily taken,
as all thought of me was so far from their minds), I resolved to take
it upon myself, and on myself to inflict the pain they deserved,
perhaps with even greater severity than I should have dealt out to them
had I then slain them; for sudden pain is soon over, but that which is
protracted by tortures is ever slaying without ending life. In a word,
I quitted the house and reached that of the man with whom I had left my
mule; I made him saddle it for me, mounted without bidding him
farewell, and rode out of the city, like another Lot, not daring to
turn my head to look back upon it; and when I found myself alone in the
open country, screened by the darkness of the night, and tempted by the
stillness to give vent to my grief without apprehension or fear of
being heard or seen, then I broke silence and lifted up my voice in
maledictions upon Luscinda and Don Fernando, as if I could thus avenge
the wrong they had done me. I called her cruel, ungrateful, false,
thankless, but above all covetous, since the wealth of my enemy had
blinded the eyes of her affection, and turned it from me to transfer it
to one to whom fortune had been more generous and liberal. And yet, in
the midst of this outburst of execration and upbraiding, I found
excuses for her, saying it was no wonder that a young girl in the
seclusion of her parents’ house, trained and schooled to obey them
always, should have been ready to yield to their wishes when they
offered her for a husband a gentleman of such distinction, wealth, and
noble birth, that if she had refused to accept him she would have been
thought out of her senses, or to have set her affection elsewhere, a
suspicion injurious to her fair name and fame. But then again, I said,
had she declared I was her husband, they would have seen that in
choosing me she had not chosen so ill but that they might excuse her,
for before Don Fernando had made his offer, they themselves could not
have desired, if their desires had been ruled by reason, a more
eligible husband for their daughter than I was; and she, before taking
the last fatal step of giving her hand, might easily have said that I
had already given her mine, for I should have come forward to support
any assertion of hers to that effect. In short, I came to the
conclusion that feeble love, little reflection, great ambition, and a
craving for rank, had made her forget the words with which she had
deceived me, encouraged and supported by my firm hopes and honourable
passion.
“Thus soliloquising and agitated, I journeyed onward for the remainder
of the night, and by daybreak I reached one of the passes of these
mountains, among which I wandered for three days more without taking
any path or road, until I came to some meadows lying on I know not
which side of the mountains, and there I inquired of some herdsmen in
what direction the most rugged part of the range lay. They told me that
it was in this quarter, and I at once directed my course hither,
intending to end my life here; but as I was making my way among these
crags, my mule dropped dead through fatigue and hunger, or, as I think
more likely, in order to have done with such a worthless burden as it
bore in me. I was left on foot, worn out, famishing, without anyone to
help me or any thought of seeking help: and so thus I lay stretched on
the ground, how long I know not, after which I rose up free from
hunger, and found beside me some goatherds, who no doubt were the
persons who had relieved me in my need, for they told me how they had
found me, and how I had been uttering ravings that showed plainly I had
lost my reason; and since then I am conscious that I am not always in
full possession of it, but at times so deranged and crazed that I do a
thousand mad things, tearing my clothes, crying aloud in these
solitudes, cursing my fate, and idly calling on the dear name of her
who is my enemy, and only seeking to end my life in lamentation; and
when I recover my senses I find myself so exhausted and weary that I
can scarcely move. Most commonly my dwelling is the hollow of a cork
tree large enough to shelter this miserable body; the herdsmen and
goatherds who frequent these mountains, moved by compassion, furnish me
with food, leaving it by the wayside or on the rocks, where they think
I may perhaps pass and find it; and so, even though I may be then out
of my senses, the wants of nature teach me what is required to sustain
me, and make me crave it and eager to take it. At other times, so they
tell me when they find me in a rational mood, I sally out upon the
road, and though they would gladly give it me, I snatch food by force
from the shepherds bringing it from the village to their huts. Thus do
pass the wretched life that remains to me, until it be Heaven’s will to
bring it to a close, or so to order my memory that I no longer
recollect the beauty and treachery of Luscinda, or the wrong done me by
Don Fernando; for if it will do this without depriving me of life, I
will turn my thoughts into some better channel; if not, I can only
implore it to have full mercy on my soul, for in myself I feel no power
or strength to release my body from this strait in which I have of my
own accord chosen to place it.
“Such, sirs, is the dismal story of my misfortune: say if it be one
that can be told with less emotion than you have seen in me; and do not
trouble yourselves with urging or pressing upon me what reason suggests
as likely to serve for my relief, for it will avail me as much as the
medicine prescribed by a wise physician avails the sick man who will
not take it. I have no wish for health without Luscinda; and since it
is her pleasure to be another’s, when she is or should be mine, let it
be mine to be a prey to misery when I might have enjoyed happiness. She
by her fickleness strove to make my ruin irretrievable; I will strive
to gratify her wishes by seeking destruction; and it will show
generations to come that I alone was deprived of that of which all
others in misfortune have a superabundance, for to them the
impossibility of being consoled is itself a consolation, while to me it
is the cause of greater sorrows and sufferings, for I think that even
in death there will not be an end of them.”
Here Cardenio brought to a close his long discourse and story, as full
of misfortune as it was of love; but just as the curate was going to
address some words of comfort to him, he was stopped by a voice that
reached his ear, saying in melancholy tones what will be told in the
Fourth Part of this narrative; for at this point the sage and sagacious
historian, Cid Hamete Benengeli, brought the Third to a conclusion.
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CHAPTER XXVIII.
WHICH TREATS OF THE STRANGE AND DELIGHTFUL ADVENTURE THAT BEFELL THE
CURATE AND THE BARBER IN THE SAME SIERRA
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Full Size
Happy and fortunate were the times when that most daring knight Don
Quixote of La Mancha was sent into the world; for by reason of his
having formed a resolution so honourable as that of seeking to revive
and restore to the world the long-lost and almost defunct order of
knight-errantry, we now enjoy in this age of ours, so poor in light
entertainment, not only the charm of his veracious history, but also of
the tales and episodes contained in it which are, in a measure, no less
pleasing, ingenious, and truthful, than the history itself; which,
resuming its thread, carded, spun, and wound, relates that just as the
curate was going to offer consolation to Cardenio, he was interrupted
by a voice that fell upon his ear saying in plaintive tones:
“O God! is it possible I have found a place that may serve as a secret
grave for the weary load of this body that I support so unwillingly? If
the solitude these mountains promise deceives me not, it is so; ah! woe
is me! how much more grateful to my mind will be the society of these
rocks and brakes that permit me to complain of my misfortune to Heaven,
than that of any human being, for there is none on earth to look to for
counsel in doubt, comfort in sorrow, or relief in distress!”
All this was heard distinctly by the curate and those with him, and as
it seemed to them to be uttered close by, as indeed it was, they got up
to look for the speaker, and before they had gone twenty paces they
discovered behind a rock, seated at the foot of an ash tree, a youth in
the dress of a peasant, whose face they were unable at the moment to
see as he was leaning forward, bathing his feet in the brook that
flowed past. They approached so silently that he did not perceive them,
being fully occupied in bathing his feet, which were so fair that they
looked like two pieces of shining crystal brought forth among the other
stones of the brook. The whiteness and beauty of these feet struck them
with surprise, for they did not seem to have been made to crush clods
or to follow the plough and the oxen as their owner’s dress suggested;
and so, finding they had not been noticed, the curate, who was in
front, made a sign to the other two to conceal themselves behind some
fragments of rock that lay there; which they did, observing closely
what the youth was about. He had on a loose double-skirted dark brown
jacket bound tight to his body with a white cloth; he wore besides
breeches and gaiters of brown cloth, and on his head a brown montera;
and he had the gaiters turned up as far as the middle of the leg, which
verily seemed to be of pure alabaster.
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As soon as he had done bathing his beautiful feet, he wiped them with a
towel he took from under the montera, on taking off which he raised his
face, and those who were watching him had an opportunity of seeing a
beauty so exquisite that Cardenio said to the curate in a whisper:
“As this is not Luscinda, it is no human creature but a divine being.”
The youth then took off the montera, and shaking his head from side to
side there broke loose and spread out a mass of hair that the beams of
the sun might have envied; by this they knew that what had seemed a
peasant was a lovely woman, nay the most beautiful the eyes of two of
them had ever beheld, or even Cardenio’s if they had not seen and known
Luscinda, for he afterwards declared that only the beauty of Luscinda
could compare with this. The long auburn tresses not only covered her
shoulders, but such was their length and abundance, concealed her all
round beneath their masses, so that except the feet nothing of her form
was visible. She now used her hands as a comb, and if her feet had
seemed like bits of crystal in the water, her hands looked like pieces
of driven snow among her locks; all which increased not only the
admiration of the three beholders, but their anxiety to learn who she
was. With this object they resolved to show themselves, and at the stir
they made in getting upon their feet the fair damsel raised her head,
and parting her hair from before her eyes with both hands, she looked
to see who had made the noise, and the instant she perceived them she
started to her feet, and without waiting to put on her shoes or gather
up her hair, hastily snatched up a bundle as though of clothes that she
had beside her, and, scared and alarmed, endeavoured to take flight;
but before she had gone six paces she fell to the ground, her delicate
feet being unable to bear the roughness of the stones; seeing which,
the three hastened towards her, and the curate addressing her first
said:
“Stay, señora, whoever you may be, for those whom you see here only
desire to be of service to you; you have no need to attempt a flight so
heedless, for neither can your feet bear it, nor we allow it.”
Taken by surprise and bewildered, she made no reply to these words.
They, however, came towards her, and the curate taking her hand went on
to say:
“What your dress would hide, señora, is made known to us by your hair;
a clear proof that it can be no trifling cause that has disguised your
beauty in a garb so unworthy of it, and sent it into solitudes like
these where we have had the good fortune to find you, if not to relieve
your distress, at least to offer you comfort; for no distress, so long
as life lasts, can be so oppressive or reach such a height as to make
the sufferer refuse to listen to comfort offered with good intention.
And so, señora, or señor, or whatever you prefer to be, dismiss the
fears that our appearance has caused you and make us acquainted with
your good or evil fortunes, for from all of us together, or from each
one of us, you will receive sympathy in your trouble.”
While the curate was speaking, the disguised damsel stood as if
spell-bound, looking at them without opening her lips or uttering a
word, just like a village rustic to whom something strange that he has
never seen before has been suddenly shown; but on the curate addressing
some further words to the same effect to her, sighing deeply she broke
silence and said:
“Since the solitude of these mountains has been unable to conceal me,
and the escape of my dishevelled tresses will not allow my tongue to
deal in falsehoods, it would be idle for me now to make any further
pretence of what, if you were to believe me, you would believe more out
of courtesy than for any other reason. This being so, I say I thank
you, sirs, for the offer you have made me, which places me under the
obligation of complying with the request you have made of me; though I
fear the account I shall give you of my misfortunes will excite in you
as much concern as compassion, for you will be unable to suggest
anything to remedy them or any consolation to alleviate them. However,
that my honour may not be left a matter of doubt in your minds, now
that you have discovered me to be a woman, and see that I am young,
alone, and in this dress, things that taken together or separately
would be enough to destroy any good name, I feel bound to tell what I
would willingly keep secret if I could.”
All this she who was now seen to be a lovely woman delivered without
any hesitation, with so much ease and in so sweet a voice that they
were not less charmed by her intelligence than by her beauty, and as
they again repeated their offers and entreaties to her to fulfil her
promise, she without further pressing, first modestly covering her feet
and gathering up her hair, seated herself on a stone with the three
placed around her, and, after an effort to restrain some tears that
came to her eyes, in a clear and steady voice began her story thus:
“In this Andalusia there is a town from which a duke takes a title
which makes him one of those that are called Grandees of Spain. This
nobleman has two sons, the elder heir to his dignity and apparently to
his good qualities; the younger heir to I know not what, unless it be
the treachery of Vellido and the falsehood of Ganelon. My parents are
this lord’s vassals, lowly in origin, but so wealthy that if birth had
conferred as much on them as fortune, they would have had nothing left
to desire, nor should I have had reason to fear trouble like that in
which I find myself now; for it may be that my ill fortune came of
theirs in not having been nobly born. It is true they are not so low
that they have any reason to be ashamed of their condition, but neither
are they so high as to remove from my mind the impression that my
mishap comes of their humble birth. They are, in short, peasants, plain
homely people, without any taint of disreputable blood, and, as the
saying is, old rusty Christians, but so rich that by their wealth and
free-handed way of life they are coming by degrees to be considered
gentlefolk by birth, and even by position; though the wealth and
nobility they thought most of was having me for their daughter; and as
they have no other child to make their heir, and are affectionate
parents, I was one of the most indulged daughters that ever parents
indulged.
“I was the mirror in which they beheld themselves, the staff of their
old age, and the object in which, with submission to Heaven, all their
wishes centred, and mine were in accordance with theirs, for I knew
their worth; and as I was mistress of their hearts, so was I also of
their possessions. Through me they engaged or dismissed their servants;
through my hands passed the accounts and returns of what was sown and
reaped; the oil-mills, the wine-presses, the count of the flocks and
herds, the beehives, all in short that a rich farmer like my father has
or can have, I had under my care, and I acted as steward and mistress
with an assiduity on my part and satisfaction on theirs that I cannot
well describe to you. The leisure hours left to me after I had given
the requisite orders to the head-shepherds, overseers, and other
labourers, I passed in such employments as are not only allowable but
necessary for young girls, those that the needle, embroidery cushion,
and spinning wheel usually afford, and if to refresh my mind I quitted
them for a while, I found recreation in reading some devotional book or
playing the harp, for experience taught me that music soothes the
troubled mind and relieves weariness of spirit. Such was the life I led
in my parents’ house and if I have depicted it thus minutely, it is not
out of ostentation, or to let you know that I am rich, but that you may
see how, without any fault of mine, I have fallen from the happy
condition I have described, to the misery I am in at present. The truth
is, that while I was leading this busy life, in a retirement that might
compare with that of a monastery, and unseen as I thought by any except
the servants of the house (for when I went to Mass it was so early in
the morning, and I was so closely attended by my mother and the women
of the household, and so thickly veiled and so shy, that my eyes
scarcely saw more ground than I trod on), in spite of all this, the
eyes of love, or idleness, more properly speaking, that the lynx’s
cannot rival, discovered me, with the help of the assiduity of Don
Fernando; for that is the name of the younger son of the duke I told
of.”
The moment the speaker mentioned the name of Don Fernando, Cardenio
changed colour and broke into a sweat, with such signs of emotion that
the curate and the barber, who observed it, feared that one of the mad
fits which they heard attacked him sometimes was coming upon him; but
Cardenio showed no further agitation and remained quiet, regarding the
peasant girl with fixed attention, for he began to suspect who she was.
She, however, without noticing the excitement of Cardenio, continuing
her story, went on to say:
“And they had hardly discovered me, when, as he owned afterwards, he
was smitten with a violent love for me, as the manner in which it
displayed itself plainly showed. But to shorten the long recital of my
woes, I will pass over in silence all the artifices employed by Don
Fernando for declaring his passion for me. He bribed all the household,
he gave and offered gifts and presents to my parents; every day was
like a holiday or a merry-making in our street; by night no one could
sleep for the music; the love letters that used to come to my hand, no
one knew how, were innumerable, full of tender pleadings and pledges,
containing more promises and oaths than there were letters in them; all
which not only did not soften me, but hardened my heart against him, as
if he had been my mortal enemy, and as if everything he did to make me
yield were done with the opposite intention. Not that the high-bred
bearing of Don Fernando was disagreeable to me, or that I found his
importunities wearisome; for it gave me a certain sort of satisfaction
to find myself so sought and prized by a gentleman of such distinction,
and I was not displeased at seeing my praises in his letters (for
however ugly we women may be, it seems to me it always pleases us to
hear ourselves called beautiful) but that my own sense of right was
opposed to all this, as well as the repeated advice of my parents, who
now very plainly perceived Don Fernando’s purpose, for he cared very
little if all the world knew it. They told me they trusted and confided
their honour and good name to my virtue and rectitude alone, and bade
me consider the disparity between Don Fernando and myself, from which I
might conclude that his intentions, whatever he might say to the
contrary, had for their aim his own pleasure rather than my advantage;
and if I were at all desirous of opposing an obstacle to his
unreasonable suit, they were ready, they said, to marry me at once to
anyone I preferred, either among the leading people of our own town, or
of any of those in the neighbourhood; for with their wealth and my good
name, a match might be looked for in any quarter. This offer, and their
sound advice strengthened my resolution, and I never gave Don Fernando
a word in reply that could hold out to him any hope of success, however
remote.
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“All this caution of mine, which he must have taken for coyness, had
apparently the effect of increasing his wanton appetite—for that is the
name I give to his passion for me; had it been what he declared it to
be, you would not know of it now, because there would have been no
occasion to tell you of it. At length he learned that my parents were
contemplating marriage for me in order to put an end to his hopes of
obtaining possession of me, or at least to secure additional protectors
to watch over me, and this intelligence or suspicion made him act as
you shall hear. One night, as I was in my chamber with no other
companion than a damsel who waited on me, with the doors carefully
locked lest my honour should be imperilled through any carelessness, I
know not nor can conceive how it happened, but, with all this seclusion
and these precautions, and in the solitude and silence of my
retirement, I found him standing before me, a vision that so astounded
me that it deprived my eyes of sight, and my tongue of speech. I had no
power to utter a cry, nor, I think, did he give me time to utter one,
as he immediately approached me, and taking me in his arms (for,
overwhelmed as I was, I was powerless, I say, to help myself), he began
to make such professions to me that I know not how falsehood could have
had the power of dressing them up to seem so like truth; and the
traitor contrived that his tears should vouch for his words, and his
sighs for his sincerity.
“I, a poor young creature alone, ill versed among my people in cases
such as this, began, I know not how, to think all these lying
protestations true, though without being moved by his sighs and tears
to anything more than pure compassion; and so, as the first feeling of
bewilderment passed away, and I began in some degree to recover myself,
I said to him with more courage than I thought I could have possessed,
‘If, as I am now in your arms, señor, I were in the claws of a fierce
lion, and my deliverance could be procured by doing or saying anything
to the prejudice of my honour, it would no more be in my power to do it
or say it, than it would be possible that what was should not have
been; so then, if you hold my body clasped in your arms, I hold my soul
secured by virtuous intentions, very different from yours, as you will
see if you attempt to carry them into effect by force. I am your
vassal, but I am not your slave; your nobility neither has nor should
have any right to dishonour or degrade my humble birth; and low-born
peasant as I am, I have my self-respect as much as you, a lord and
gentleman: with me your violence will be to no purpose, your wealth
will have no weight, your words will have no power to deceive me, nor
your sighs or tears to soften me: were I to see any of the things I
speak of in him whom my parents gave me as a husband, his will should
be mine, and mine should be bounded by his; and my honour being
preserved even though my inclinations were not would willingly yield
him what you, señor, would now obtain by force; and this I say lest you
should suppose that any but my lawful husband shall ever win anything
of me.’ ‘If that,’ said this disloyal gentleman, ‘be the only scruple
you feel, fairest Dorothea’ (for that is the name of this unhappy
being), ‘see here I give you my hand to be yours, and let Heaven, from
which nothing is hid, and this image of Our Lady you have here, be
witnesses of this pledge.’”
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When Cardenio heard her say she was called Dorothea, he showed fresh
agitation and felt convinced of the truth of his former suspicion, but
he was unwilling to interrupt the story, and wished to hear the end of
what he already all but knew, so he merely said:
“What! is Dorothea your name, señora? I have heard of another of the
same name who can perhaps match your misfortunes. But proceed;
by-and-by I may tell you something that will astonish you as much as it
will excite your compassion.”
Dorothea was struck by Cardenio’s words as well as by his strange and
miserable attire, and begged him if he knew anything concerning her to
tell it to her at once, for if fortune had left her any blessing it was
courage to bear whatever calamity might fall upon her, as she felt sure
that none could reach her capable of increasing in any degree what she
endured already.
“I would not let the occasion pass, señora,” replied Cardenio, “of
telling you what I think, if what I suspect were the truth, but so far
there has been no opportunity, nor is it of any importance to you to
know it.”
“Be it as it may,” replied Dorothea, “what happened in my story was
that Don Fernando, taking an image that stood in the chamber, placed it
as a witness of our betrothal, and with the most binding words and
extravagant oaths gave me his promise to become my husband; though
before he had made an end of pledging himself I bade him consider well
what he was doing, and think of the anger his father would feel at
seeing him married to a peasant girl and one of his vassals; I told him
not to let my beauty, such as it was, blind him, for that was not
enough to furnish an excuse for his transgression; and if in the love
he bore me he wished to do me any kindness, it would be to leave my lot
to follow its course at the level my condition required; for marriages
so unequal never brought happiness, nor did they continue long to
afford the enjoyment they began with.
“All this that I have now repeated I said to him, and much more which I
cannot recollect; but it had no effect in inducing him to forego his
purpose; he who has no intention of paying does not trouble himself
about difficulties when he is striking the bargain. At the same time I
argued the matter briefly in my own mind, saying to myself, ‘I shall
not be the first who has risen through marriage from a lowly to a lofty
station, nor will Don Fernando be the first whom beauty or, as is more
likely, a blind attachment, has led to mate himself below his rank.
Then, since I am introducing no new usage or practice, I may as well
avail myself of the honour that chance offers me, for even though his
inclination for me should not outlast the attainment of his wishes, I
shall be, after all, his wife before God. And if I strive to repel him
by scorn, I can see that, fair means failing, he is in a mood to use
force, and I shall be left dishonoured and without any means of proving
my innocence to those who cannot know how innocently I have come to be
in this position; for what arguments would persuade my parents that
this gentleman entered my chamber without my consent?’
“All these questions and answers passed through my mind in a moment;
but the oaths of Don Fernando, the witnesses he appealed to, the tears
he shed, and lastly the charms of his person and his high-bred grace,
which, accompanied by such signs of genuine love, might well have
conquered a heart even more free and coy than mine—these were the
things that more than all began to influence me and lead me unawares to
my ruin. I called my waiting-maid to me, that there might be a witness
on earth besides those in Heaven, and again Don Fernando renewed and
repeated his oaths, invoked as witnesses fresh saints in addition to
the former ones, called down upon himself a thousand curses hereafter
should he fail to keep his promise, shed more tears, redoubled his
sighs and pressed me closer in his arms, from which he had never
allowed me to escape; and so I was left by my maid, and ceased to be
one, and he became a traitor and a perjured man.
“The day which followed the night of my misfortune did not come so
quickly, I imagine, as Don Fernando wished, for when desire has
attained its object, the greatest pleasure is to fly from the scene of
pleasure. I say so because Don Fernando made all haste to leave me, and
by the adroitness of my maid, who was indeed the one who had admitted
him, gained the street before daybreak; but on taking leave of me he
told me, though not with as much earnestness and fervour as when he
came, that I might rest assured of his faith and of the sanctity and
sincerity of his oaths; and to confirm his words he drew a rich ring
off his finger and placed it upon mine. He then took his departure and
I was left, I know not whether sorrowful or happy; all I can say is, I
was left agitated and troubled in mind and almost bewildered by what
had taken place, and I had not the spirit, or else it did not occur to
me, to chide my maid for the treachery she had been guilty of in
concealing Don Fernando in my chamber; for as yet I was unable to make
up my mind whether what had befallen me was for good or evil. I told
Don Fernando at parting, that as I was now his, he might see me on
other nights in the same way, until it should be his pleasure to let
the matter become known; but, except the following night, he came no
more, nor for more than a month could I catch a glimpse of him in the
street or in church, while I wearied myself with watching for one;
although I knew he was in the town, and almost every day went out
hunting, a pastime he was very fond of. I remember well how sad and
dreary those days and hours were to me; I remember well how I began to
doubt as they went by, and even to lose confidence in the faith of Don
Fernando; and I remember, too, how my maid heard those words in reproof
of her audacity that she had not heard before, and how I was forced to
put a constraint on my tears and on the expression of my countenance,
not to give my parents cause to ask me why I was so melancholy, and
drive me to invent falsehoods in reply. But all this was suddenly
brought to an end, for the time came when all such considerations were
disregarded, and there was no further question of honour, when my
patience gave way and the secret of my heart became known abroad. The
reason was, that a few days later it was reported in the town that Don
Fernando had been married in a neighbouring city to a maiden of rare
beauty, the daughter of parents of distinguished position, though not
so rich that her portion would entitle her to look for so brilliant a
match; it was said, too, that her name was Luscinda, and that at the
betrothal some strange things had happened.”
Cardenio heard the name of Luscinda, but he only shrugged his
shoulders, bit his lips, bent his brows, and before long two streams of
tears escaped from his eyes. Dorothea, however, did not interrupt her
story, but went on in these words:
“This sad intelligence reached my ears, and, instead of being struck
with a chill, with such wrath and fury did my heart burn that I
scarcely restrained myself from rushing out into the streets, crying
aloud and proclaiming openly the perfidy and treachery of which I was
the victim; but this transport of rage was for the time checked by a
resolution I formed, to be carried out the same night, and that was to
assume this dress, which I got from a servant of my father’s, one of
the zagals, as they are called in farmhouses, to whom I confided the
whole of my misfortune, and whom I entreated to accompany me to the
city where I heard my enemy was. He, though he remonstrated with me for
my boldness, and condemned my resolution, when he saw me bent upon my
purpose, offered to bear me company, as he said, to the end of the
world. I at once packed up in a linen pillow-case a woman’s dress, and
some jewels and money to provide for emergencies, and in the silence of
the night, without letting my treacherous maid know, I sallied forth
from the house, accompanied by my servant and abundant anxieties, and
on foot set out for the city, but borne as it were on wings by my
eagerness to reach it, if not to prevent what I presumed to be already
done, at least to call upon Don Fernando to tell me with what
conscience he had done it. I reached my destination in two days and a
half, and on entering the city inquired for the house of Luscinda’s
parents. The first person I asked gave me more in reply than I sought
to know; he showed me the house, and told me all that had occurred at
the betrothal of the daughter of the family, an affair of such
notoriety in the city that it was the talk of every knot of idlers in
the street. He said that on the night of Don Fernando’s betrothal with
Luscinda, as soon as she had consented to be his bride by saying ‘Yes,’
she was taken with a sudden fainting fit, and that on the bridegroom
approaching to unlace the bosom of her dress to give her air, he found
a paper in her own handwriting, in which she said and declared that she
could not be Don Fernando’s bride, because she was already Cardenio’s,
who, according to the man’s account, was a gentleman of distinction of
the same city; and that if she had accepted Don Fernando, it was only
in obedience to her parents. In short, he said, the words of the paper
made it clear she meant to kill herself on the completion of the
betrothal, and gave her reasons for putting an end to herself all which
was confirmed, it was said, by a dagger they found somewhere in her
clothes. On seeing this, Don Fernando, persuaded that Luscinda had
befooled, slighted, and trifled with him, assailed her before she had
recovered from her swoon, and tried to stab her with the dagger that
had been found, and would have succeeded had not her parents and those
who were present prevented him. It was said, moreover, that Don
Fernando went away at once, and that Luscinda did not recover from her
prostration until the next day, when she told her parents how she was
really the bride of that Cardenio I have mentioned. I learned besides
that Cardenio, according to report, had been present at the betrothal;
and that upon seeing her betrothed contrary to his expectation, he had
quitted the city in despair, leaving behind him a letter declaring the
wrong Luscinda had done him, and his intention of going where no one
should ever see him again. All this was a matter of notoriety in the
city, and everyone spoke of it; especially when it became known that
Luscinda was missing from her father’s house and from the city, for she
was not to be found anywhere, to the distraction of her parents, who
knew not what steps to take to recover her. What I learned revived my
hopes, and I was better pleased not to have found Don Fernando than to
find him married, for it seemed to me that the door was not yet
entirely shut upon relief in my case, and I thought that perhaps Heaven
had put this impediment in the way of the second marriage, to lead him
to recognise his obligations under the former one, and reflect that as
a Christian he was bound to consider his soul above all human objects.
All this passed through my mind, and I strove to comfort myself without
comfort, indulging in faint and distant hopes of cherishing that life
that I now abhor.
“But while I was in the city, uncertain what to do, as I could not find
Don Fernando, I heard notice given by the public crier offering a great
reward to anyone who should find me, and giving the particulars of my
age and of the very dress I wore; and I heard it said that the lad who
came with me had taken me away from my father’s house; a thing that cut
me to the heart, showing how low my good name had fallen, since it was
not enough that I should lose it by my flight, but they must add with
whom I had fled, and that one so much beneath me and so unworthy of my
consideration. The instant I heard the notice I quitted the city with
my servant, who now began to show signs of wavering in his fidelity to
me, and the same night, for fear of discovery, we entered the most
thickly wooded part of these mountains. But, as is commonly said, one
evil calls up another and the end of one misfortune is apt to be the
beginning of one still greater, and so it proved in my case; for my
worthy servant, until then so faithful and trusty when he found me in
this lonely spot, moved more by his own villainy than by my beauty,
sought to take advantage of the opportunity which these solitudes
seemed to present him, and with little shame and less fear of God and
respect for me, began to make overtures to me; and finding that I
replied to the effrontery of his proposals with justly severe language,
he laid aside the entreaties which he had employed at first, and began
to use violence.
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“But just Heaven, that seldom fails to watch over and aid good
intentions, so aided mine that with my slight strength and with little
exertion I pushed him over a precipice, where I left him, whether dead
or alive I know not; and then, with greater speed than seemed possible
in my terror and fatigue, I made my way into the mountains, without any
other thought or purpose save that of hiding myself among them, and
escaping my father and those despatched in search of me by his orders.
It is now I know not how many months since with this object I came
here, where I met a herdsman who engaged me as his servant at a place
in the heart of this Sierra, and all this time I have been serving him
as herd, striving to keep always afield to hide these locks which have
now unexpectedly betrayed me. But all my care and pains were
unavailing, for my master made the discovery that I was not a man, and
harboured the same base designs as my servant; and as fortune does not
always supply a remedy in cases of difficulty, and I had no precipice
or ravine at hand down which to fling the master and cure his passion,
as I had in the servant’s case, I thought it a lesser evil to leave him
and again conceal myself among these crags, than make trial of my
strength and argument with him. So, as I say, once more I went into
hiding to seek for some place where I might with sighs and tears
implore Heaven to have pity on my misery, and grant me help and
strength to escape from it, or let me die among the solitudes, leaving
no trace of an unhappy being who, by no fault of hers, has furnished
matter for talk and scandal at home and abroad.”
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CHAPTER XXIX.
WHICH TREATS OF THE DROLL DEVICE AND METHOD ADOPTED TO EXTRICATE OUR
LOVE-STRICKEN KNIGHT FROM THE SEVERE PENANCE HE HAD IMPOSED UPON
HIMSELF
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“Such, sirs, is the true story of my sad adventures; judge for
yourselves now whether the sighs and lamentations you heard, and the
tears that flowed from my eyes, had not sufficient cause even if I had
indulged in them more freely; and if you consider the nature of my
misfortune you will see that consolation is idle, as there is no
possible remedy for it. All I ask of you is, what you may easily and
reasonably do, to show me where I may pass my life unharassed by the
fear and dread of discovery by those who are in search of me; for
though the great love my parents bear me makes me feel sure of being
kindly received by them, so great is my feeling of shame at the mere
thought that I cannot present myself before them as they expect, that I
had rather banish myself from their sight for ever than look them in
the face with the reflection that they beheld mine stripped of that
purity they had a right to expect in me.”
With these words she became silent, and the colour that overspread her
face showed plainly the pain and shame she was suffering at heart. In
theirs the listeners felt as much pity as wonder at her misfortunes;
but as the curate was just about to offer her some consolation and
advice Cardenio forestalled him, saying, “So then, señora, you are the
fair Dorothea, the only daughter of the rich Clenardo?” Dorothea was
astonished at hearing her father’s name, and at the miserable
appearance of him who mentioned it, for it has been already said how
wretchedly clad Cardenio was; so she said to him:
“And who may you be, brother, who seem to know my father’s name so
well? For so far, if I remember rightly, I have not mentioned it in the
whole story of my misfortunes.”
“I am that unhappy being, señora,” replied Cardenio, “whom, as you have
said, Luscinda declared to be her husband; I am the unfortunate
Cardenio, whom the wrong-doing of him who has brought you to your
present condition has reduced to the state you see me in, bare, ragged,
bereft of all human comfort, and what is worse, of reason, for I only
possess it when Heaven is pleased for some short space to restore it to
me. I, Dorothea, am he who witnessed the wrong done by Don Fernando,
and waited to hear the ‘Yes’ uttered by which Luscinda owned herself
his betrothed: I am he who had not courage enough to see how her
fainting fit ended, or what came of the paper that was found in her
bosom, because my heart had not the fortitude to endure so many strokes
of ill-fortune at once; and so losing patience I quitted the house, and
leaving a letter with my host, which I entreated him to place in
Luscinda’s hands, I betook myself to these solitudes, resolved to end
here the life I hated as if it were my mortal enemy. But fate would not
rid me of it, contenting itself with robbing me of my reason, perhaps
to preserve me for the good fortune I have had in meeting you; for if
that which you have just told us be true, as I believe it to be, it may
be that Heaven has yet in store for both of us a happier termination to
our misfortunes than we look for; because seeing that Luscinda cannot
marry Don Fernando, being mine, as she has herself so openly declared,
and that Don Fernando cannot marry her as he is yours, we may
reasonably hope that Heaven will restore to us what is ours, as it is
still in existence and not yet alienated or destroyed. And as we have
this consolation springing from no very visionary hope or wild fancy, I
entreat you, señora, to form new resolutions in your better mind, as I
mean to do in mine, preparing yourself to look forward to happier
fortunes; for I swear to you by the faith of a gentleman and a
Christian not to desert you until I see you in possession of Don
Fernando, and if I cannot by words induce him to recognise his
obligation to you, in that case to avail myself of the right which my
rank as a gentleman gives me, and with just cause challenge him on
account of the injury he has done you, not regarding my own wrongs,
which I shall leave to Heaven to avenge, while I on earth devote myself
to yours.”
Cardenio’s words completed the astonishment of Dorothea, and not
knowing how to return thanks for such an offer, she attempted to kiss
his feet; but Cardenio would not permit it, and the licentiate replied
for both, commended the sound reasoning of Cardenio, and lastly,
begged, advised, and urged them to come with him to his village, where
they might furnish themselves with what they needed, and take measures
to discover Don Fernando, or restore Dorothea to her parents, or do
what seemed to them most advisable. Cardenio and Dorothea thanked him,
and accepted the kind offer he made them; and the barber, who had been
listening to all attentively and in silence, on his part some kindly
words also, and with no less good-will than the curate offered his
services in any way that might be of use to them. He also explained to
them in a few words the object that had brought them there, and the
strange nature of Don Quixote’s madness, and how they were waiting for
his squire, who had gone in search of him. Like the recollection of a
dream, the quarrel he had had with Don Quixote came back to Cardenio’s
memory, and he described it to the others; but he was unable to say
what the dispute was about.
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At this moment they heard a shout, and recognised it as coming from
Sancho Panza, who, not finding them where he had left them, was calling
aloud to them. They went to meet him, and in answer to their inquiries
about Don Quixote, he told them how he had found him stripped to his
shirt, lank, yellow, half dead with hunger, and sighing for his lady
Dulcinea; and although he had told him that she commanded him to quit
that place and come to El Toboso, where she was expecting him, he had
answered that he was determined not to appear in the presence of her
beauty until he had done deeds to make him worthy of her favour; and if
this went on, Sancho said, he ran the risk of not becoming an emperor
as in duty bound, or even an archbishop, which was the least he could
be; for which reason they ought to consider what was to be done to get
him away from there. The licentiate in reply told him not to be uneasy,
for they would fetch him away in spite of himself. He then told
Cardenio and Dorothea what they had proposed to do to cure Don Quixote,
or at any rate take him home; upon which Dorothea said that she could
play the distressed damsel better than the barber; especially as she
had there the dress in which to do it to the life, and that they might
trust to her acting the part in every particular requisite for carrying
out their scheme, for she had read a great many books of chivalry, and
knew exactly the style in which afflicted damsels begged boons of
knights-errant.
“In that case,” said the curate, “there is nothing more required than
to set about it at once, for beyond a doubt fortune is declaring itself
in our favour, since it has so unexpectedly begun to open a door for
your relief, and smoothed the way for us to our object.”
Dorothea then took out of her pillow-case a complete petticoat of some
rich stuff, and a green mantle of some other fine material, and a
necklace and other ornaments out of a little box, and with these in an
instant she so arrayed herself that she looked like a great and rich
lady. All this, and more, she said, she had taken from home in case of
need, but that until then she had had no occasion to make use of it.
They were all highly delighted with her grace, air, and beauty, and
declared Don Fernando to be a man of very little taste when he rejected
such charms. But the one who admired her most was Sancho Panza, for it
seemed to him (what indeed was true) that in all the days of his life
he had never seen such a lovely creature; and he asked the curate with
great eagerness who this beautiful lady was, and what she wanted in
these out-of-the-way quarters.
“This fair lady, brother Sancho,” replied the curate, “is no less a
personage than the heiress in the direct male line of the great kingdom
of Micomicon, who has come in search of your master to beg a boon of
him, which is that he redress a wrong or injury that a wicked giant has
done her; and from the fame as a good knight which your master has
acquired far and wide, this princess has come from Guinea to seek him.”
“A lucky seeking and a lucky finding!” said Sancho Panza at this;
“especially if my master has the good fortune to redress that injury,
and right that wrong, and kill that son of a bitch of a giant your
worship speaks of; as kill him he will if he meets him, unless, indeed,
he happens to be a phantom; for my master has no power at all against
phantoms. But one thing among others I would beg of you, señor
licentiate, which is, that, to prevent my master taking a fancy to be
an archbishop, for that is what I’m afraid of, your worship would
recommend him to marry this princess at once; for in this way he will
be disabled from taking archbishop’s orders, and will easily come into
his empire, and I to the end of my desires; I have been thinking over
the matter carefully, and by what I can make out I find it will not do
for me that my master should become an archbishop, because I am no good
for the Church, as I am married; and for me now, having as I have a
wife and children, to set about obtaining dispensations to enable me to
hold a place of profit under the Church, would be endless work; so
that, señor, it all turns on my master marrying this lady at once—for
as yet I do not know her grace, and so I cannot call her by her name.”
“She is called the Princess Micomicona,” said the curate; “for as her
kingdom is Micomicon, it is clear that must be her name.”
“There’s no doubt of that,” replied Sancho, “for I have known many to
take their name and title from the place where they were born and call
themselves Pedro of Alcalá, Juan of Úbeda, and Diego of Valladolid; and
it may be that over there in Guinea queens have the same way of taking
the names of their kingdoms.”
“So it may,” said the curate; “and as for your master’s marrying, I
will do all in my power towards it:” with which Sancho was as much
pleased as the curate was amazed at his simplicity and at seeing what a
hold the absurdities of his master had taken of his fancy, for he had
evidently persuaded himself that he was going to be an emperor.
By this time Dorothea had seated herself upon the curate’s mule, and
the barber had fitted the ox-tail beard to his face, and they now told
Sancho to conduct them to where Don Quixote was, warning him not to say
that he knew either the licentiate or the barber, as his master’s
becoming an emperor entirely depended on his not recognising them;
neither the curate nor Cardenio, however, thought fit to go with them;
Cardenio lest he should remind Don Quixote of the quarrel he had with
him, and the curate as there was no necessity for his presence just
yet, so they allowed the others to go on before them, while they
themselves followed slowly on foot. The curate did not forget to
instruct Dorothea how to act, but she said they might make their minds
easy, as everything would be done exactly as the books of chivalry
required and described.
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They had gone about three-quarters of a league when they discovered Don
Quixote in a wilderness of rocks, by this time clothed, but without his
armour; and as soon as Dorothea saw him and was told by Sancho that
that was Don Quixote, she whipped her palfrey, the well-bearded barber
following her, and on coming up to him her squire sprang from his mule
and came forward to receive her in his arms, and she dismounting with
great ease of manner advanced to kneel before the feet of Don Quixote;
and though he strove to raise her up, she without rising addressed him
in this fashion:
“From this spot I will not rise, valiant and doughty knight, until your
goodness and courtesy grant me a boon, which will redound to the honour
and renown of your person and render a service to the most disconsolate
and afflicted damsel the sun has seen; and if the might of your strong
arm corresponds to the repute of your immortal fame, you are bound to
aid the helpless being who, led by the savour of your renowned name,
hath come from far distant lands to seek your aid in her misfortunes.”
“I will not answer a word, beauteous lady,” replied Don Quixote, “nor
will I listen to anything further concerning you, until you rise from
the earth.”
“I will not rise, señor,” answered the afflicted damsel, “unless of
your courtesy the boon I ask is first granted me.”
“I grant and accord it,” said Don Quixote, “provided without detriment
or prejudice to my king, my country, or her who holds the key of my
heart and freedom, it may be complied with.”
“It will not be to the detriment or prejudice of any of them, my worthy
lord,” said the afflicted damsel; and here Sancho Panza drew close to
his master’s ear and said to him very softly, “Your worship may very
safely grant the boon she asks; it’s nothing at all; only to kill a big
giant; and she who asks it is the exalted Princess Micomicona, queen of
the great kingdom of Micomicon of Ethiopia.”
“Let her be who she may,” replied Don Quixote, “I will do what is my
bounden duty, and what my conscience bids me, in conformity with what I
have professed;” and turning to the damsel he said, “Let your great
beauty rise, for I grant the boon which you would ask of me.”
“Then what I ask,” said the damsel, “is that your magnanimous person
accompany me at once whither I will conduct you, and that you promise
not to engage in any other adventure or quest until you have avenged me
of a traitor who against all human and divine law, has usurped my
kingdom.”
“I repeat that I grant it,” replied Don Quixote; “and so, lady, you may
from this day forth lay aside the melancholy that distresses you, and
let your failing hopes gather new life and strength, for with the help
of God and of my arm you will soon see yourself restored to your
kingdom, and seated upon the throne of your ancient and mighty realm,
notwithstanding and despite of the felons who would gainsay it; and now
hands to the work, for in delay there is apt to be danger.”
The distressed damsel strove with much pertinacity to kiss his hands;
but Don Quixote, who was in all things a polished and courteous knight,
would by no means allow it, but made her rise and embraced her with
great courtesy and politeness, and ordered Sancho to look to
Rocinante’s girths, and to arm him without a moment’s delay. Sancho
took down the armour, which was hung up on a tree like a trophy, and
having seen to the girths armed his master in a trice, who as soon as
he found himself in his armour exclaimed:
“Let us be gone in the name of God to bring aid to this great lady.”
The barber was all this time on his knees at great pains to hide his
laughter and not let his beard fall, for had it fallen maybe their fine
scheme would have come to nothing; but now seeing the boon granted, and
the promptitude with which Don Quixote prepared to set out in
compliance with it, he rose and took his lady’s hand, and between them
they placed her upon the mule. Don Quixote then mounted Rocinante, and
the barber settled himself on his beast, Sancho being left to go on
foot, which made him feel anew the loss of his Dapple, finding the want
of him now. But he bore all with cheerfulness, being persuaded that his
master had now fairly started and was just on the point of becoming an
emperor; for he felt no doubt at all that he would marry this princess,
and be king of Micomicon at least. The only thing that troubled him was
the reflection that this kingdom was in the land of the blacks, and
that the people they would give him for vassals would be all black; but
for this he soon found a remedy in his fancy, and said he to himself,
“What is it to me if my vassals are blacks? What more have I to do than
make a cargo of them and carry them to Spain, where I can sell them and
get ready money for them, and with it buy some title or some office in
which to live at ease all the days of my life? Not unless you go to
sleep and haven’t the wit or skill to turn things to account and sell
three, six, or ten thousand vassals while you would be talking about
it! By God I will stir them up, big and little, or as best I can, and
let them be ever so black I’ll turn them into white or yellow. Come,
come, what a fool I am!” And so he jogged on, so occupied with his
thoughts and easy in his mind that he forgot all about the hardship of
travelling on foot.
Cardenio and the curate were watching all this from among some bushes,
not knowing how to join company with the others; but the curate, who
was very fertile in devices, soon hit upon a way of effecting their
purpose, and with a pair of scissors he had in a case he quickly cut
off Cardenio’s beard, and putting on him a grey jerkin of his own he
gave him a black cloak, leaving himself in his breeches and doublet,
while Cardenio’s appearance was so different from what it had been that
he would not have known himself had he seen himself in a mirror. Having
effected this, although the others had gone on ahead while they were
disguising themselves, they easily came out on the high road before
them, for the brambles and awkward places they encountered did not
allow those on horseback to go as fast as those on foot. They then
posted themselves on the level ground at the outlet of the Sierra, and
as soon as Don Quixote and his companions emerged from it the curate
began to examine him very deliberately, as though he were striving to
recognise him, and after having stared at him for some time he hastened
towards him with open arms exclaiming, “A happy meeting with the mirror
of chivalry, my worthy compatriot Don Quixote of La Mancha, the flower
and cream of high breeding, the protection and relief of the
distressed, the quintessence of knights-errant!” And so saying he
clasped in his arms the knee of Don Quixote’s left leg. He, astonished
at the stranger’s words and behaviour, looked at him attentively, and
at length recognised him, very much surprised to see him there, and
made great efforts to dismount. This, however, the curate would not
allow, on which Don Quixote said, “Permit me, señor licentiate, for it
is not fitting that I should be on horseback and so reverend a person
as your worship on foot.”
“On no account will I allow it,” said the curate; “your mightiness must
remain on horseback, for it is on horseback you achieve the greatest
deeds and adventures that have been beheld in our age; as for me, an
unworthy priest, it will serve me well enough to mount on the haunches
of one of the mules of these gentlefolk who accompany your worship, if
they have no objection, and I will fancy I am mounted on the steed
Pegasus, or on the zebra or charger that bore the famous Moor,
Muzaraque, who to this day lies enchanted in the great hill of Zulema,
a little distance from the great Complutum.”
“Nor even that will I consent to, señor licentiate,” answered Don
Quixote, “and I know it will be the good pleasure of my lady the
princess, out of love for me, to order her squire to give up the saddle
of his mule to your worship, and he can sit behind if the beast will
bear it.”
“It will, I am sure,” said the princess, “and I am sure, too, that I
need not order my squire, for he is too courteous and considerate to
allow a Churchman to go on foot when he might be mounted.”
“That he is,” said the barber, and at once alighting, he offered his
saddle to the curate, who accepted it without much entreaty; but
unfortunately as the barber was mounting behind, the mule, being as it
happened a hired one, which is the same thing as saying
ill-conditioned, lifted its hind hoofs and let fly a couple of kicks in
the air, which would have made Master Nicholas wish his expedition in
quest of Don Quixote at the devil had they caught him on the breast or
head. As it was, they so took him by surprise that he came to the
ground, giving so little heed to his beard that it fell off, and all he
could do when he found himself without it was to cover his face hastily
with both his hands and moan that his teeth were knocked out. Don
Quixote when he saw all that bundle of beard detached, without jaws or
blood, from the face of the fallen squire, exclaimed:
“By the living God, but this is a great miracle! it has knocked off and
plucked away the beard from his face as if it had been shaved off
designedly.”
The curate, seeing the danger of discovery that threatened his scheme,
at once pounced upon the beard and hastened with it to where Master
Nicholas lay, still uttering moans, and drawing his head to his breast
had it on in an instant, muttering over him some words which he said
were a certain special charm for sticking on beards, as they would see;
and as soon as he had it fixed he left him, and the squire appeared
well bearded and whole as before, whereat Don Quixote was beyond
measure astonished, and begged the curate to teach him that charm when
he had an opportunity, as he was persuaded its virtue must extend
beyond the sticking on of beards, for it was clear that where the beard
had been stripped off the flesh must have remained torn and lacerated,
and when it could heal all that it must be good for more than beards.
“And so it is,” said the curate, and he promised to teach it to him on
the first opportunity. They then agreed that for the present the curate
should mount, and that the three should ride by turns until they
reached the inn, which might be about six leagues from where they were.
Three then being mounted, that is to say, Don Quixote, the princess,
and the curate, and three on foot, Cardenio, the barber, and Sancho
Panza, Don Quixote said to the damsel:
“Let your highness, lady, lead on whithersoever is most pleasing to
you;” but before she could answer the licentiate said:
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“Towards what kingdom would your ladyship direct our course? Is it
perchance towards that of Micomicon? It must be, or else I know little
about kingdoms.”
She, being ready on all points, understood that she was to answer
“Yes,” so she said “Yes, señor, my way lies towards that kingdom.”
“In that case,” said the curate, “we must pass right through my
village, and there your worship will take the road to Cartagena, where
you will be able to embark, fortune favouring; and if the wind be fair
and the sea smooth and tranquil, in somewhat less than nine years you
may come in sight of the great lake Meona, I mean Meotides, which is
little more than a hundred days’ journey this side of your highness’s
kingdom.”
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“Your worship is mistaken, señor,” said she; “for it is not two years
since I set out from it, and though I never had good weather,
nevertheless I am here to behold what I so longed for, and that is my
lord Don Quixote of La Mancha, whose fame came to my ears as soon as I
set foot in Spain and impelled me to go in search of him, to commend
myself to his courtesy, and entrust the justice of my cause to the
might of his invincible arm.”
“Enough; no more praise,” said Don Quixote at this, “for I hate all
flattery; and though this may not be so, still language of the kind is
offensive to my chaste ears. I will only say, señora, that whether it
has might or not, that which it may or may not have shall be devoted to
your service even to death; and now, leaving this to its proper season,
I would ask the señor licentiate to tell me what it is that has brought
him into these parts, alone, unattended, and so lightly clad that I am
filled with amazement.”
“I will answer that briefly,” replied the curate; “you must know then,
Señor Don Quixote, that Master Nicholas, our friend and barber, and I
were going to Seville to receive some money that a relative of mine who
went to the Indies many years ago had sent me, and not such a small sum
but that it was over sixty thousand pieces of eight, full weight, which
is something; and passing by this place yesterday we were attacked by
four footpads, who stripped us even to our beards, and them they
stripped off so that the barber found it necessary to put on a false
one, and even this young man here”—pointing to Cardenio—“they
completely transformed. But the best of it is, the story goes in the
neighbourhood that those who attacked us belong to a number of galley
slaves who, they say, were set free almost on the very same spot by a
man of such valour that, in spite of the commissary and of the guards,
he released the whole of them; and beyond all doubt he must have been
out of his senses, or he must be as great a scoundrel as they, or some
man without heart or conscience to let the wolf loose among the sheep,
the fox among the hens, the fly among the honey. He has defrauded
justice, and opposed his king and lawful master, for he opposed his
just commands; he has, I say, robbed the galleys of their feet, stirred
up the Holy Brotherhood which for many years past has been quiet, and,
lastly, has done a deed by which his soul may be lost without any gain
to his body.” Sancho had told the curate and the barber of the
adventure of the galley slaves, which, so much to his glory, his master
had achieved, and hence the curate in alluding to it made the most of
it to see what would be said or done by Don Quixote; who changed colour
at every word, not daring to say that it was he who had been the
liberator of those worthy people. “These, then,” said the curate, “were
they who robbed us; and God in his mercy pardon him who would not let
them go to the punishment they deserved.”
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CHAPTER XXX.
WHICH TREATS OF ADDRESS DISPLAYED BY THE FAIR DOROTHEA, WITH OTHER
MATTERS PLEASANT AND AMUSING
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The curate had hardly ceased speaking, when Sancho said, “In faith,
then, señor licentiate, he who did that deed was my master; and it was
not for want of my telling him beforehand and warning him to mind what
he was about, and that it was a sin to set them at liberty, as they
were all on the march there because they were special scoundrels.”
“Blockhead!” said Don Quixote at this, “it is no business or concern of
knights-errant to inquire whether any persons in affliction, in chains,
or oppressed that they may meet on the high roads go that way and
suffer as they do because of their faults or because of their
misfortunes. It only concerns them to aid them as persons in need of
help, having regard to their sufferings and not to their rascalities. I
encountered a chaplet or string of miserable and unfortunate people,
and did for them what my sense of duty demands of me, and as for the
rest be that as it may; and whoever takes objection to it, saving the
sacred dignity of the señor licentiate and his honoured person, I say
he knows little about chivalry and lies like a whoreson villain, and
this I will give him to know to the fullest extent with my sword;” and
so saying he settled himself in his stirrups and pressed down his
morion; for the barber’s basin, which according to him was Mambrino’s
helmet, he carried hanging at the saddle-bow until he could repair the
damage done to it by the galley slaves.
Dorothea, who was shrewd and sprightly, and by this time thoroughly
understood Don Quixote’s crazy turn, and that all except Sancho Panza
were making game of him, not to be behind the rest said to him, on
observing his irritation, “Sir Knight, remember the boon you have
promised me, and that in accordance with it you must not engage in any
other adventure, be it ever so pressing; calm yourself, for if the
licentiate had known that the galley slaves had been set free by that
unconquered arm he would have stopped his mouth thrice over, or even
bitten his tongue three times before he would have said a word that
tended towards disrespect of your worship.”
“That I swear heartily,” said the curate, “and I would have even
plucked off a moustache.”
“I will hold my peace, señora,” said Don Quixote, “and I will curb the
natural anger that had arisen in my breast, and will proceed in peace
and quietness until I have fulfilled my promise; but in return for this
consideration I entreat you to tell me, if you have no objection to do
so, what is the nature of your trouble, and how many, who, and what are
the persons of whom I am to require due satisfaction, and on whom I am
to take vengeance on your behalf?”
“That I will do with all my heart,” replied Dorothea, “if it will not
be wearisome to you to hear of miseries and misfortunes.”
“It will not be wearisome, señora,” said Don Quixote; to which Dorothea
replied, “Well, if that be so, give me your attention.” As soon as she
said this, Cardenio and the barber drew close to her side, eager to
hear what sort of story the quick-witted Dorothea would invent for
herself; and Sancho did the same, for he was as much taken in by her as
his master; and she having settled herself comfortably in the saddle,
and with the help of coughing and other preliminaries taken time to
think, began with great sprightliness of manner in this fashion.
“First of all, I would have you know, sirs, that my name is—” and here
she stopped for a moment, for she forgot the name the curate had given
her; but he came to her relief, seeing what her difficulty was, and
said, “It is no wonder, señora, that your highness should be confused
and embarrassed in telling the tale of your misfortunes; for such
afflictions often have the effect of depriving the sufferers of memory,
so that they do not even remember their own names, as is the case now
with your ladyship, who has forgotten that she is called the Princess
Micomicona, lawful heiress of the great kingdom of Micomicon; and with
this cue your highness may now recall to your sorrowful recollection
all you may wish to tell us.”
“That is the truth,” said the damsel; “but I think from this on I shall
have no need of any prompting, and I shall bring my true story safe
into port, and here it is. The king my father, who was called Tinacrio
the Sapient, was very learned in what they call magic arts, and became
aware by his craft that my mother, who was called Queen Jaramilla, was
to die before he did, and that soon after he too was to depart this
life, and I was to be left an orphan without father or mother. But all
this, he declared, did not so much grieve or distress him as his
certain knowledge that a prodigious giant, the lord of a great island
close to our kingdom, Pandafilando of the Scowl by name—for it is
averred that, though his eyes are properly placed and straight, he
always looks askew as if he squinted, and this he does out of
malignity, to strike fear and terror into those he looks at—that he
knew, I say, that this giant on becoming aware of my orphan condition
would overrun my kingdom with a mighty force and strip me of all, not
leaving me even a small village to shelter me; but that I could avoid
all this ruin and misfortune if I were willing to marry him; however,
as far as he could see, he never expected that I would consent to a
marriage so unequal; and he said no more than the truth in this, for it
has never entered my mind to marry that giant, or any other, let him be
ever so great or enormous. My father said, too, that when he was dead,
and I saw Pandafilando about to invade my kingdom, I was not to wait
and attempt to defend myself, for that would be destructive to me, but
that I should leave the kingdom entirely open to him if I wished to
avoid the death and total destruction of my good and loyal vassals, for
there would be no possibility of defending myself against the giant’s
devilish power; and that I should at once with some of my followers set
out for Spain, where I should obtain relief in my distress on finding a
certain knight-errant whose fame by that time would extend over the
whole kingdom, and who would be called, if I remember rightly, Don
Azote or Don Gigote.”
“‘Don Quixote,’ he must have said, señora,” observed Sancho at this,
“otherwise called the Knight of the Rueful Countenance.”
“That is it,” said Dorothea; “he said, moreover, that he would be tall
of stature and lank featured; and that on his right side under the left
shoulder, or thereabouts, he would have a grey mole with hairs like
bristles.”
On hearing this, Don Quixote said to his squire, “Here, Sancho my son,
bear a hand and help me to strip, for I want to see if I am the knight
that sage king foretold.”
“What does your worship want to strip for?” said Dorothea.
“To see if I have that mole your father spoke of,” answered Don
Quixote.
“There is no occasion to strip,” said Sancho; “for I know your worship
has just such a mole on the middle of your backbone, which is the mark
of a strong man.”
“That is enough,” said Dorothea, “for with friends we must not look too
closely into trifles; and whether it be on the shoulder or on the
backbone matters little; it is enough if there is a mole, be it where
it may, for it is all the same flesh; no doubt my good father hit the
truth in every particular, and I have made a lucky hit in commending
myself to Don Quixote; for he is the one my father spoke of, as the
features of his countenance correspond with those assigned to this
knight by that wide fame he has acquired not only in Spain but in all
La Mancha; for I had scarcely landed at Osuna when I heard such
accounts of his achievements, that at once my heart told me he was the
very one I had come in search of.”
“But how did you land at Osuna, señora,” asked Don Quixote, “when it is
not a seaport?”
But before Dorothea could reply the curate anticipated her, saying,
“The princess meant to say that after she had landed at Malaga the
first place where she heard of your worship was Osuna.”
“That is what I meant to say,” said Dorothea.
“And that would be only natural,” said the curate. “Will your majesty
please proceed?”
“There is no more to add,” said Dorothea, “save that in finding Don
Quixote I have had such good fortune, that I already reckon and regard
myself queen and mistress of my entire dominions, since of his courtesy
and magnanimity he has granted me the boon of accompanying me
whithersoever I may conduct him, which will be only to bring him face
to face with Pandafilando of the Scowl, that he may slay him and
restore to me what has been unjustly usurped by him: for all this must
come to pass satisfactorily since my good father Tinacrio the Sapient
foretold it, who likewise left it declared in writing in Chaldee or
Greek characters (for I cannot read them), that if this predicted
knight, after having cut the giant’s throat, should be disposed to
marry me I was to offer myself at once without demur as his lawful
wife, and yield him possession of my kingdom together with my person.”
“What thinkest thou now, friend Sancho?” said Don Quixote at this.
“Hearest thou that? Did I not tell thee so? See how we have already got
a kingdom to govern and a queen to marry!”
“On my oath it is so,” said Sancho; “and foul fortune to him who won’t
marry after slitting Señor Pandahilado’s windpipe! And then, how
illfavoured the queen is! I wish the fleas in my bed were that sort!”
And so saying he cut a couple of capers in the air with every sign of
extreme satisfaction, and then ran to seize the bridle of Dorothea’s
mule, and checking it fell on his knees before her, begging her to give
him her hand to kiss in token of his acknowledgment of her as his queen
and mistress. Which of the bystanders could have helped laughing to see
the madness of the master and the simplicity of the servant? Dorothea
therefore gave her hand, and promised to make him a great lord in her
kingdom, when Heaven should be so good as to permit her to recover and
enjoy it, for which Sancho returned thanks in words that set them all
laughing again.
“This, sirs,” continued Dorothea, “is my story; it only remains to tell
you that of all the attendants I took with me from my kingdom I have
none left except this well-bearded squire, for all were drowned in a
great tempest we encountered when in sight of port; and he and I came
to land on a couple of planks as if by a miracle; and indeed the whole
course of my life is a miracle and a mystery as you may have observed;
and if I have been over minute in any respect or not as precise as I
ought, let it be accounted for by what the licentiate said at the
beginning of my tale, that constant and excessive troubles deprive the
sufferers of their memory.”
“They shall not deprive me of mine, exalted and worthy princess,” said
Don Quixote, “however great and unexampled those which I shall endure
in your service may be; and here I confirm anew the boon I have
promised you, and I swear to go with you to the end of the world until
I find myself in the presence of your fierce enemy, whose haughty head
I trust by the aid of my arm to cut off with the edge of this—I will
not say good sword, thanks to Gines de Pasamonte who carried away
mine”—(this he said between his teeth, and then continued), “and when
it has been cut off and you have been put in peaceful possession of
your realm it shall be left to your own decision to dispose of your
person as may be most pleasing to you; for so long as my memory is
occupied, my will enslaved, and my understanding enthralled by her—I
say no more—it is impossible for me for a moment to contemplate
marriage, even with a Phœnix.”
The last words of his master about not wanting to marry were so
disagreeable to Sancho that raising his voice he exclaimed with great
irritation:
“By my oath, Señor Don Quixote, you are not in your right senses; for
how can your worship possibly object to marrying such an exalted
princess as this? Do you think Fortune will offer you behind every
stone such a piece of luck as is offered you now? Is my lady Dulcinea
fairer, perchance? Not she; nor half as fair; and I will even go so far
as to say she does not come up to the shoe of this one here. A poor
chance I have of getting that county I am waiting for if your worship
goes looking for dainties in the bottom of the sea. In the devil’s
name, marry, marry, and take this kingdom that comes to hand without
any trouble, and when you are king make me a marquis or governor of a
province, and for the rest let the devil take it all.”
Don Quixote, when he heard such blasphemies uttered against his lady
Dulcinea, could not endure it, and lifting his pike, without saying
anything to Sancho or uttering a word, he gave him two such thwacks
that he brought him to the ground; and had it not been that Dorothea
cried out to him to spare him he would have no doubt taken his life on
the spot.
“Do you think,” he said to him after a pause, “you scurvy clown, that
you are to be always interfering with me, and that you are to be always
offending and I always pardoning? Don’t fancy it, impious scoundrel,
for that beyond a doubt thou art, since thou hast set thy tongue going
against the peerless Dulcinea. Know you not, lout, vagabond, beggar,
that were it not for the might that she infuses into my arm I should
not have strength enough to kill a flea? Say, scoffer with a viper’s
tongue, what think you has won this kingdom and cut off this giant’s
head and made you a marquis (for all this I count as already
accomplished and decided), but the might of Dulcinea, employing my arm
as the instrument of her achievements? She fights in me and conquers in
me, and I live and breathe in her, and owe my life and being to her. O
whoreson scoundrel, how ungrateful you are, you see yourself raised
from the dust of the earth to be a titled lord, and the return you make
for so great a benefit is to speak evil of her who has conferred it
upon you!”
Sancho was not so stunned but that he heard all his master said, and
rising with some degree of nimbleness he ran to place himself behind
Dorothea’s palfrey, and from that position he said to his master:
“Tell me, señor; if your worship is resolved not to marry this great
princess, it is plain the kingdom will not be yours; and not being so,
how can you bestow favours upon me? That is what I complain of. Let
your worship at any rate marry this queen, now that we have got her
here as if showered down from heaven, and afterwards you may go back to
my lady Dulcinea; for there must have been kings in the world who kept
mistresses. As to beauty, I have nothing to do with it; and if the
truth is to be told, I like them both; though I have never seen the
lady Dulcinea.”
“How! never seen her, blasphemous traitor!” exclaimed Don Quixote;
“hast thou not just now brought me a message from her?”
“I mean,” said Sancho, “that I did not see her so much at my leisure
that I could take particular notice of her beauty, or of her charms
piecemeal; but taken in the lump I like her.”
“Now I forgive thee,” said Don Quixote; “and do thou forgive me the
injury I have done thee; for our first impulses are not in our
control.”
“That I see,” replied Sancho, “and with me the wish to speak is always
the first impulse, and I cannot help saying, once at any rate, what I
have on the tip of my tongue.”
“For all that, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “take heed of what thou
sayest, for the pitcher goes so often to the well—I need say no more to
thee.”
“Well, well,” said Sancho, “God is in heaven, and sees all tricks, and
will judge who does most harm, I in not speaking right, or your worship
in not doing it.”
“That is enough,” said Dorothea; “run, Sancho, and kiss your lord’s
hand and beg his pardon, and henceforward be more circumspect with your
praise and abuse; and say nothing in disparagement of that lady Toboso,
of whom I know nothing save that I am her servant; and put your trust
in God, for you will not fail to obtain some dignity so as to live like
a prince.”
Sancho advanced hanging his head and begged his master’s hand, which
Don Quixote with dignity presented to him, giving him his blessing as
soon as he had kissed it; he then bade him go on ahead a little, as he
had questions to ask him and matters of great importance to discuss
with him. Sancho obeyed, and when the two had gone some distance in
advance Don Quixote said to him, “Since thy return I have had no
opportunity or time to ask thee many particulars touching thy mission
and the answer thou hast brought back, and now that chance has granted
us the time and opportunity, deny me not the happiness thou canst give
me by such good news.”
“Let your worship ask what you will,” answered Sancho, “for I shall
find a way out of all as I found a way in; but I implore you, señor,
not to be so revengeful in future.”
“Why dost thou say that, Sancho?” said Don Quixote.
“I say it,” he returned, “because those blows just now were more
because of the quarrel the devil stirred up between us both the other
night, than for what I said against my lady Dulcinea, whom I love and
reverence as I would a relic—though there is nothing of that about
her—merely as something belonging to your worship.”
“Say no more on that subject for thy life, Sancho,” said Don Quixote,
“for it is displeasing to me; I have already pardoned thee for that,
and thou knowest the common saying, ‘for a fresh sin a fresh penance.’”
While this was going on they saw coming along the road they were
following a man mounted on an ass, who when he came close seemed to be
a gipsy; but Sancho Panza, whose eyes and heart were there wherever he
saw asses, no sooner beheld the man than he knew him to be Gines de
Pasamonte; and by the thread of the gipsy he got at the ball, his ass,
for it was, in fact, Dapple that carried Pasamonte, who to escape
recognition and to sell the ass had disguised himself as a gipsy, being
able to speak the gipsy language, and many more, as well as if they
were his own. Sancho saw him and recognised him, and the instant he did
so he shouted to him, “Ginesillo, you thief, give up my treasure,
release my life, embarrass thyself not with my repose, quit my ass,
leave my delight, be off, rip, get thee gone, thief, and give up what
is not thine.”
There was no necessity for so many words or objurgations, for at the
first one Gines jumped down, and at a like racing speed made off and
got clear of them all. Sancho hastened to his Dapple, and embracing him
he said, “How hast thou fared, my blessing, Dapple of my eyes, my
comrade?” all the while kissing him and caressing him as if he were a
human being. The ass held his peace, and let himself be kissed and
caressed by Sancho without answering a single word. They all came up
and congratulated him on having found Dapple, Don Quixote especially,
who told him that notwithstanding this he would not cancel the order
for the three ass-colts, for which Sancho thanked him.
While the two had been going along conversing in this fashion, the
curate observed to Dorothea that she had shown great cleverness, as
well in the story itself as in its conciseness, and the resemblance it
bore to those of the books of chivalry. She said that she had many
times amused herself reading them; but that she did not know the
situation of the provinces or seaports, and so she had said at
haphazard that she had landed at Osuna.
“So I saw,” said the curate, “and for that reason I made haste to say
what I did, by which it was all set right. But is it not a strange
thing to see how readily this unhappy gentleman believes all these
figments and lies, simply because they are in the style and manner of
the absurdities of his books?”
“So it is,” said Cardenio; “and so uncommon and unexampled, that were
one to attempt to invent and concoct it in fiction, I doubt if there be
any wit keen enough to imagine it.”
“But another strange thing about it,” said the curate, “is that, apart
from the silly things which this worthy gentleman says in connection
with his craze, when other subjects are dealt with, he can discuss them
in a perfectly rational manner, showing that his mind is quite clear
and composed; so that, provided his chivalry is not touched upon, no
one would take him to be anything but a man of thoroughly sound
understanding.”
While they were holding this conversation Don Quixote continued his
with Sancho, saying:
“Friend Panza, let us forgive and forget as to our quarrels, and tell
me now, dismissing anger and irritation, where, how, and when didst
thou find Dulcinea? What was she doing? What didst thou say to her?
What did she answer? How did she look when she was reading my letter?
Who copied it out for thee? and everything in the matter that seems to
thee worth knowing, asking, and learning; neither adding nor falsifying
to give me pleasure, nor yet curtailing lest you should deprive me of
it.”
“Señor,” replied Sancho, “if the truth is to be told, nobody copied out
the letter for me, for I carried no letter at all.”
“It is as thou sayest,” said Don Quixote, “for the notebook in which I
wrote it I found in my own possession two days after thy departure,
which gave me very great vexation, as I knew not what thou wouldst do
on finding thyself without any letter; and I made sure thou wouldst
return from the place where thou didst first miss it.”
“So I should have done,” said Sancho, “if I had not got it by heart
when your worship read it to me, so that I repeated it to a sacristan,
who copied it out for me from hearing it, so exactly that he said in
all the days of his life, though he had read many a letter of
excommunication, he had never seen or read so pretty a letter as that.”
“And hast thou got it still in thy memory, Sancho?” said Don Quixote.
“No, señor,” replied Sancho, “for as soon as I had repeated it, seeing
there was no further use for it, I set about forgetting it; and if I
recollect any of it, it is that about ‘Scrubbing,’ I mean to say
‘Sovereign Lady,’ and the end ‘Yours till death, the Knight of the
Rueful Countenance;’ and between these two I put into it more than
three hundred ‘my souls’ and ‘my life’s’ and ‘my eyes.”
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CHAPTER XXXI.
OF THE DELECTABLE DISCUSSION BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE AND SANCHO PANZA, HIS
SQUIRE, TOGETHER WITH OTHER INCIDENTS
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Full Size
“All that is not unsatisfactory to me,” said Don Quixote. “Go on; thou
didst reach her; and what was that queen of beauty doing? Surely thou
didst find her stringing pearls, or embroidering some device in gold
thread for this her enslaved knight.”
“I did not,” said Sancho, “but I found her winnowing two bushels of
wheat in the yard of her house.”
“Then depend upon it,” said Don Quixote, “the grains of that wheat were
pearls when touched by her hands; and didst thou look, friend? was it
white wheat or brown?”
“It was neither, but red,” said Sancho.
“Then I promise thee,” said Don Quixote, “that, winnowed by her hands,
beyond a doubt the bread it made was of the whitest; but go on; when
thou gavest her my letter, did she kiss it? Did she place it on her
head? Did she perform any ceremony befitting it, or what did she do?”
“When I went to give it to her,” replied Sancho, “she was hard at it
swaying from side to side with a lot of wheat she had in the sieve, and
she said to me, ‘Lay the letter, friend, on the top of that sack, for I
cannot read it until I have done sifting all this.”
“Discreet lady!” said Don Quixote; “that was in order to read it at her
leisure and enjoy it; proceed, Sancho; while she was engaged in her
occupation what converse did she hold with thee? What did she ask about
me, and what answer didst thou give? Make haste; tell me all, and let
not an atom be left behind in the ink-bottle.”
“She asked me nothing,” said Sancho; “but I told her how your worship
was left doing penance in her service, naked from the waist up, in
among these mountains like a savage, sleeping on the ground, not eating
bread off a tablecloth nor combing your beard, weeping and cursing your
fortune.”
“In saying I cursed my fortune thou saidst wrong,” said Don Quixote;
“for rather do I bless it and shall bless it all the days of my life
for having made me worthy of aspiring to love so lofty a lady as
Dulcinea del Toboso.”
“And so lofty she is,” said Sancho, “that she overtops me by more than
a hand’s-breadth.”
“What! Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “didst thou measure with her?”
“I measured in this way,” said Sancho; “going to help her to put a sack
of wheat on the back of an ass, we came so close together that I could
see she stood more than a good palm over me.”
“Well!” said Don Quixote, “and doth she not of a truth accompany and
adorn this greatness with a thousand million charms of mind! But one
thing thou wilt not deny, Sancho; when thou camest close to her didst
thou not perceive a Sabæan odour, an aromatic fragrance, a, I know not
what, delicious, that I cannot find a name for; I mean a redolence, an
exhalation, as if thou wert in the shop of some dainty glover?”
“All I can say is,” said Sancho, “that I did perceive a little odour,
something goaty; it must have been that she was all in a sweat with
hard work.”
“It could not be that,” said Don Quixote, “but thou must have been
suffering from cold in the head, or must have smelt thyself; for I know
well what would be the scent of that rose among thorns, that lily of
the field, that dissolved amber.”
“Maybe so,” replied Sancho; “there often comes from myself that same
odour which then seemed to me to come from her grace the lady Dulcinea;
but that’s no wonder, for one devil is like another.”
“Well then,” continued Don Quixote, “now she has done sifting the corn
and sent it to the mill; what did she do when she read the letter?”
“As for the letter,” said Sancho, “she did not read it, for she said
she could neither read nor write; instead of that she tore it up into
small pieces, saying that she did not want to let anyone read it lest
her secrets should become known in the village, and that what I had
told her by word of mouth about the love your worship bore her, and the
extraordinary penance you were doing for her sake, was enough; and, to
make an end of it, she told me to tell your worship that she kissed
your hands, and that she had a greater desire to see you than to write
to you; and that therefore she entreated and commanded you, on sight of
this present, to come out of these thickets, and to have done with
carrying on absurdities, and to set out at once for El Toboso, unless
something else of greater importance should happen, for she had a great
desire to see your worship. She laughed greatly when I told her how
your worship was called The Knight of the Rueful Countenance; I asked
her if that Biscayan the other day had been there; and she told me he
had, and that he was an honest fellow; I asked her too about the galley
slaves, but she said she had not seen any as yet.”
“So far all goes well,” said Don Quixote; “but tell me what jewel was
it that she gave thee on taking thy leave, in return for thy tidings of
me? For it is a usual and ancient custom with knights and ladies errant
to give the squires, damsels, or dwarfs who bring tidings of their
ladies to the knights, or of their knights to the ladies, some rich
jewel as a guerdon for good news, and acknowledgment of the message.”
“That is very likely,” said Sancho, “and a good custom it was, to my
mind; but that must have been in days gone by, for now it would seem to
be the custom only to give a piece of bread and cheese; because that
was what my lady Dulcinea gave me over the top of the yard-wall when I
took leave of her; and more by token it was sheep’s-milk cheese.”
“She is generous in the extreme,” said Don Quixote, “and if she did not
give thee a jewel of gold, no doubt it must have been because she had
not one to hand there to give thee; but sleeves are good after Easter;
I shall see her and all shall be made right. But knowest thou what
amazes me, Sancho? It seems to me thou must have gone and come through
the air, for thou hast taken but little more than three days to go to
El Toboso and return, though it is more than thirty leagues from here
to there. From which I am inclined to think that the sage magician who
is my friend, and watches over my interests (for of necessity there is
and must be one, or else I should not be a right knight-errant), that
this same, I say, must have helped thee to travel without thy
knowledge; for some of these sages will catch up a knight-errant
sleeping in his bed, and without his knowing how or in what way it
happened, he wakes up the next day more than a thousand leagues away
from the place where he went to sleep. And if it were not for this,
knights-errant would not be able to give aid to one another in peril,
as they do at every turn. For a knight, maybe, is fighting in the
mountains of Armenia with some dragon, or fierce serpent, or another
knight, and gets the worst of the battle, and is at the point of death;
but when he least looks for it, there appears over against him on a
cloud, or chariot of fire, another knight, a friend of his, who just
before had been in England, and who takes his part, and delivers him
from death; and at night he finds himself in his own quarters supping
very much to his satisfaction; and yet from one place to the other will
have been two or three thousand leagues. And all this is done by the
craft and skill of the sage enchanters who take care of those valiant
knights; so that, friend Sancho, I find no difficulty in believing that
thou mayest have gone from this place to El Toboso and returned in such
a short time, since, as I have said, some friendly sage must have
carried thee through the air without thee perceiving it.”
“That must have been it,” said Sancho, “for indeed Rocinante went like
a gipsy’s ass with quicksilver in his ears.”
“Quicksilver!” said Don Quixote, “aye and what is more, a legion of
devils, folk that can travel and make others travel without being
weary, exactly as the whim seizes them. But putting this aside, what
thinkest thou I ought to do about my lady’s command to go and see her?
For though I feel that I am bound to obey her mandate, I feel too that
I am debarred by the boon I have accorded to the princess that
accompanies us, and the law of chivalry compels me to have regard for
my word in preference to my inclination; on the one hand the desire to
see my lady pursues and harasses me, on the other my solemn promise and
the glory I shall win in this enterprise urge and call me; but what I
think I shall do is to travel with all speed and reach quickly the
place where this giant is, and on my arrival I shall cut off his head,
and establish the princess peacefully in her realm, and forthwith I
shall return to behold the light that lightens my senses, to whom I
shall make such excuses that she will be led to approve of my delay,
for she will see that it entirely tends to increase her glory and fame;
for all that I have won, am winning, or shall win by arms in this life,
comes to me of the favour she extends to me, and because I am hers.”
“Ah! what a sad state your worship’s brains are in!” said Sancho. “Tell
me, señor, do you mean to travel all that way for nothing, and to let
slip and lose so rich and great a match as this where they give as a
portion a kingdom that in sober truth I have heard say is more than
twenty thousand leagues round about, and abounds with all things
necessary to support human life, and is bigger than Portugal and
Castile put together? Peace, for the love of God! Blush for what you
have said, and take my advice, and forgive me, and marry at once in the
first village where there is a curate; if not, here is our licentiate
who will do the business beautifully; remember, I am old enough to give
advice, and this I am giving comes pat to the purpose; for a sparrow in
the hand is better than a vulture on the wing, and he who has the good
to his hand and chooses the bad, that the good he complains of may not
come to him.”
“Look here, Sancho,” said Don Quixote. “If thou art advising me to
marry, in order that immediately on slaying the giant I may become
king, and be able to confer favours on thee, and give thee what I have
promised, let me tell thee I shall be able very easily to satisfy thy
desires without marrying; for before going into battle I will make it a
stipulation that, if I come out of it victorious, even I do not marry,
they shall give me a portion of the kingdom, that I may bestow it upon
whomsoever I choose, and when they give it to me upon whom wouldst thou
have me bestow it but upon thee?”
“That is plain speaking,” said Sancho; “but let your worship take care
to choose it on the seacoast, so that if I don’t like the life, I may
be able to ship off my black vassals and deal with them as I have said;
don’t mind going to see my lady Dulcinea now, but go and kill this
giant and let us finish off this business; for by God it strikes me it
will be one of great honour and great profit.”
“I hold thou art in the right of it, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “and I
will take thy advice as to accompanying the princess before going to
see Dulcinea; but I counsel thee not to say anything to anyone, or to
those who are with us, about what we have considered and discussed, for
as Dulcinea is so decorous that she does not wish her thoughts to be
known it is not right that I or anyone for me should disclose them.”
“Well then, if that be so,” said Sancho, “how is it that your worship
makes all those you overcome by your arm go to present themselves
before my lady Dulcinea, this being the same thing as signing your name
to it that you love her and are her lover? And as those who go must
perforce kneel before her and say they come from your worship to submit
themselves to her, how can the thoughts of both of you be hid?”
“O, how silly and simple thou art!” said Don Quixote; “seest thou not,
Sancho, that this tends to her greater exaltation? For thou must know
that according to our way of thinking in chivalry, it is a high honour
to a lady to have many knights-errant in her service, whose thoughts
never go beyond serving her for her own sake, and who look for no other
reward for their great and true devotion than that she should be
willing to accept them as her knights.”
“It is with that kind of love,” said Sancho, “I have heard preachers
say we ought to love our Lord, for himself alone, without being moved
by the hope of glory or the fear of punishment; though for my part, I
would rather love and serve him for what he could do.”
“The devil take thee for a clown!” said Don Quixote, “and what shrewd
things thou sayest at times! One would think thou hadst studied.”
“In faith, then, I cannot even read.”
Master Nicholas here called out to them to wait a while, as they wanted
to halt and drink at a little spring there was there. Don Quixote drew
up, not a little to the satisfaction of Sancho, for he was by this time
weary of telling so many lies, and in dread of his master catching him
tripping, for though he knew that Dulcinea was a peasant girl of El
Toboso, he had never seen her in all his life. Cardenio had now put on
the clothes which Dorothea was wearing when they found her, and though
they were not very good, they were far better than those he put off.
They dismounted together by the side of the spring, and with what the
curate had provided himself with at the inn they appeased, though not
very well, the keen appetite they all of them brought with them.
While they were so employed there happened to come by a youth passing
on his way, who stopping to examine the party at the spring, the next
moment ran to Don Quixote and clasping him round the legs, began to
weep freely, saying, “O, señor, do you not know me? Look at me well; I
am that lad Andres that your worship released from the oak-tree where I
was tied.”
Don Quixote recognised him, and taking his hand he turned to those
present and said: “That your worships may see how important it is to
have knights-errant to redress the wrongs and injuries done by
tyrannical and wicked men in this world, I may tell you that some days
ago passing through a wood, I heard cries and piteous complaints as of
a person in pain and distress; I immediately hastened, impelled by my
bounden duty, to the quarter whence the plaintive accents seemed to me
to proceed, and I found tied to an oak this lad who now stands before
you, which in my heart I rejoice at, for his testimony will not permit
me to depart from the truth in any particular. He was, I say, tied to
an oak, naked from the waist up, and a clown, whom I afterwards found
to be his master, was scarifying him by lashes with the reins of his
mare. As soon as I saw him I asked the reason of so cruel a
flagellation. The boor replied that he was flogging him because he was
his servant and because of carelessness that proceeded rather from
dishonesty than stupidity; on which this boy said, ‘Señor, he flogs me
only because I ask for my wages.’ The master made I know not what
speeches and explanations, which, though I listened to them, I did not
accept. In short, I compelled the clown to unbind him, and to swear he
would take him with him, and pay him real by real, and perfumed into
the bargain. Is not all this true, Andres my son? Didst thou not mark
with what authority I commanded him, and with what humility he promised
to do all I enjoined, specified, and required of him? Answer without
hesitation; tell these gentlemen what took place, that they may see
that it is as great an advantage as I say to have knights-errant
abroad.”
“All that your worship has said is quite true,” answered the lad; “but
the end of the business turned out just the opposite of what your
worship supposes.”
“How! the opposite?” said Don Quixote; “did not the clown pay thee
then?”
“Not only did he not pay me,” replied the lad, “but as soon as your
worship had passed out of the wood and we were alone, he tied me up
again to the same oak and gave me a fresh flogging, that left me like a
flayed Saint Bartholomew; and every stroke he gave me he followed up
with some jest or gibe about having made a fool of your worship, and
but for the pain I was suffering I should have laughed at the things he
said. In short he left me in such a condition that I have been until
now in a hospital getting cured of the injuries which that rascally
clown inflicted on me then; for all which your worship is to blame; for
if you had gone your own way and not come where there was no call for
you, nor meddled in other people’s affairs, my master would have been
content with giving me one or two dozen lashes, and would have then
loosed me and paid me what he owed me; but when your worship abused him
so out of measure, and gave him so many hard words, his anger was
kindled; and as he could not revenge himself on you, as soon as he saw
you had left him the storm burst upon me in such a way, that I feel as
if I should never be a man again.”
“The mischief,” said Don Quixote, “lay in my going away; for I should
not have gone until I had seen thee paid; because I ought to have known
well by long experience that there is no clown who will keep his word
if he finds it will not suit him to keep it; but thou rememberest,
Andres, that I swore if he did not pay thee I would go and seek him,
and find him though he were to hide himself in the whale’s belly.”
“That is true,” said Andres; “but it was of no use.”
“Thou shalt see now whether it is of use or not,” said Don Quixote; and
so saying, he got up hastily and bade Sancho bridle Rocinante, who was
browsing while they were eating. Dorothea asked him what he meant to
do. He replied that he meant to go in search of this clown and chastise
him for such iniquitous conduct, and see Andres paid to the last
maravedi, despite and in the teeth of all the clowns in the world. To
which she replied that he must remember that in accordance with his
promise he could not engage in any enterprise until he had concluded
hers; and that as he knew this better than anyone, he should restrain
his ardour until his return from her kingdom.
“That is true,” said Don Quixote, “and Andres must have patience until
my return as you say, señora; but I once more swear and promise not to
stop until I have seen him avenged and paid.”
“I have no faith in those oaths,” said Andres; “I would rather have now
something to help me to get to Seville than all the revenges in the
world; if you have here anything to eat that I can take with me, give
it me, and God be with your worship and all knights-errant; and may
their errands turn out as well for themselves as they have for me.”
Sancho took out from his store a piece of bread and another of cheese,
and giving them to the lad he said, “Here, take this, brother Andres,
for we have all of us a share in your misfortune.”
“Why, what share have you got?”
“This share of bread and cheese I am giving you,” answered Sancho; “and
God knows whether I shall feel the want of it myself or not; for I
would have you know, friend, that we squires to knights-errant have to
bear a great deal of hunger and hard fortune, and even other things
more easily felt than told.”
Andres seized his bread and cheese, and seeing that nobody gave him
anything more, bent his head, and took hold of the road, as the saying
is. However, before leaving he said, “For the love of God, sir
knight-errant, if you ever meet me again, though you may see them
cutting me to pieces, give me no aid or succour, but leave me to my
misfortune, which will not be so great but that a greater will come to
me by being helped by your worship, on whom and all the knights-errant
that have ever been born God send his curse.”
Don Quixote was getting up to chastise him, but he took to his heels at
such a pace that no one attempted to follow him; and mightily
chapfallen was Don Quixote at Andres’ story, and the others had to take
great care to restrain their laughter so as not to put him entirely out
of countenance.
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CHAPTER XXXII.
WHICH TREATS OF WHAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE’S PARTY AT THE INN
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Their dainty repast being finished, they saddled at once, and without
any adventure worth mentioning they reached next day the inn, the
object of Sancho Panza’s fear and dread; but though he would have
rather not entered it, there was no help for it. The landlady, the
landlord, their daughter, and Maritornes, when they saw Don Quixote and
Sancho coming, went out to welcome them with signs of hearty
satisfaction, which Don Quixote received with dignity and gravity, and
bade them make up a better bed for him than the last time: to which the
landlady replied that if he paid better than he did the last time she
would give him one fit for a prince. Don Quixote said he would, so they
made up a tolerable one for him in the same garret as before; and he
lay down at once, being sorely shaken and in want of sleep.
No sooner was the door shut upon him than the landlady made at the
barber, and seizing him by the beard, said:
“By my faith you are not going to make a beard of my tail any longer;
you must give me back my tail, for it is a shame the way that thing of
my husband’s goes tossing about on the floor; I mean the comb that I
used to stick in my good tail.”
But for all she tugged at it the barber would not give it up until the
licentiate told him to let her have it, as there was now no further
occasion for that stratagem, because he might declare himself and
appear in his own character, and tell Don Quixote that he had fled to
this inn when those thieves the galley slaves robbed him; and should he
ask for the princess’s squire, they could tell him that she had sent
him on before her to give notice to the people of her kingdom that she
was coming, and bringing with her the deliverer of them all. On this
the barber cheerfully restored the tail to the landlady, and at the
same time they returned all the accessories they had borrowed to effect
Don Quixote’s deliverance. All the people of the inn were struck with
astonishment at the beauty of Dorothea, and even at the comely figure
of the shepherd Cardenio. The curate made them get ready such fare as
there was in the inn, and the landlord, in hope of better payment,
served them up a tolerably good dinner. All this time Don Quixote was
asleep, and they thought it best not to waken him, as sleeping would
now do him more good than eating.
While at dinner, the company consisting of the landlord, his wife,
their daughter, Maritornes, and all the travellers, they discussed the
strange craze of Don Quixote and the manner in which he had been found;
and the landlady told them what had taken place between him and the
carrier; and then, looking round to see if Sancho was there, when she
saw he was not, she gave them the whole story of his blanketing, which
they received with no little amusement. But on the curate observing
that it was the books of chivalry which Don Quixote had read that had
turned his brain, the landlord said:
“I cannot understand how that can be, for in truth to my mind there is
no better reading in the world, and I have here two or three of them,
with other writings that are the very life, not only of myself but of
plenty more; for when it is harvest-time, the reapers flock here on
holidays, and there is always one among them who can read and who takes
up one of these books, and we gather round him, thirty or more of us,
and stay listening to him with a delight that makes our grey hairs grow
young again. At least I can say for myself that when I hear of what
furious and terrible blows the knights deliver, I am seized with the
longing to do the same, and I would like to be hearing about them night
and day.”
“And I just as much,” said the landlady, “because I never have a quiet
moment in my house except when you are listening to someone reading;
for then you are so taken up that for the time being you forget to
scold.”
“That is true,” said Maritornes; “and, faith, I relish hearing these
things greatly too, for they are very pretty; especially when they
describe some lady or another in the arms of her knight under the
orange trees, and the duenna who is keeping watch for them half dead
with envy and fright; all this I say is as good as honey.”
“And you, what do you think, young lady?” said the curate turning to
the landlord’s daughter.
“I don’t know indeed, señor,” said she; “I listen too, and to tell the
truth, though I do not understand it, I like hearing it; but it is not
the blows that my father likes that I like, but the laments the knights
utter when they are separated from their ladies; and indeed they
sometimes make me weep with the pity I feel for them.”
“Then you would console them if it was for you they wept, young lady?”
said Dorothea.
“I don’t know what I should do,” said the girl; “I only know that there
are some of those ladies so cruel that they call their knights tigers
and lions and a thousand other foul names: and Jesus! I don’t know what
sort of folk they can be, so unfeeling and heartless, that rather than
bestow a glance upon a worthy man they leave him to die or go mad. I
don’t know what is the good of such prudery; if it is for honour’s
sake, why not marry them? That’s all they want.”
“Hush, child,” said the landlady; “it seems to me thou knowest a great
deal about these things, and it is not fit for girls to know or talk so
much.”
“As the gentleman asked me, I could not help answering him,” said the
girl.
“Well then,” said the curate, “bring me these books, señor landlord,
for I should like to see them.”
“With all my heart,” said he, and going into his own room he brought
out an old valise secured with a little chain, on opening which the
curate found in it three large books and some manuscripts written in a
very good hand. The first that he opened he found to be “Don Cirongilio
of Thrace,” and the second “Don Felixmarte of Hircania,” and the other
the “History of the Great Captain Gonzalo Hernandez de Cordova, with
the Life of Diego García de Paredes.”
When the curate read the two first titles he looked over at the barber
and said, “We want my friend’s housekeeper and niece here now.”
“Nay,” said the barber, “I can do just as well to carry them to the
yard or to the hearth, and there is a very good fire there.”
“What! your worship would burn my books!” said the landlord.
“Only these two,” said the curate, “Don Cirongilio, and Felixmarte.”
“Are my books, then, heretics or phlegmatics that you want to burn
them?” said the landlord.
“Schismatics you mean, friend,” said the barber, “not phlegmatics.”
“That’s it,” said the landlord; “but if you want to burn any, let it be
that about the Great Captain and that Diego García; for I would rather
have a child of mine burnt than either of the others.”
“Brother,” said the curate, “those two books are made up of lies, and
are full of folly and nonsense; but this of the Great Captain is a true
history, and contains the deeds of Gonzalo Hernandez of Cordova, who by
his many and great achievements earned the title all over the world of
the Great Captain, a famous and illustrious name, and deserved by him
alone; and this Diego García de Paredes was a distinguished knight of
the city of Trujillo in Estremadura, a most gallant soldier, and of
such bodily strength that with one finger he stopped a mill-wheel in
full motion; and posted with a two-handed sword at the foot of a bridge
he kept the whole of an immense army from passing over it, and achieved
such other exploits that if, instead of his relating them himself with
the modesty of a knight and of one writing his own history, some free
and unbiased writer had recorded them, they would have thrown into the
shade all the deeds of the Hectors, Achilleses, and Rolands.”
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“Tell that to my father,” said the landlord. “There’s a thing to be
astonished at! Stopping a mill-wheel! By God your worship should read
what I have read of Felixmarte of Hircania, how with one single
backstroke he cleft five giants asunder through the middle as if they
had been made of bean-pods like the little friars the children make;
and another time he attacked a very great and powerful army, in which
there were more than a million six hundred thousand soldiers, all armed
from head to foot, and he routed them all as if they had been flocks of
sheep.”
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“And then, what do you say to the good Cirongilio of Thrace, that was
so stout and bold; as may be seen in the book, where it is related that
as he was sailing along a river there came up out of the midst of the
water against him a fiery serpent, and he, as soon as he saw it, flung
himself upon it and got astride of its scaly shoulders, and squeezed
its throat with both hands with such force that the serpent, finding he
was throttling it, had nothing for it but to let itself sink to the
bottom of the river, carrying with it the knight who would not let go
his hold; and when they got down there he found himself among palaces
and gardens so pretty that it was a wonder to see; and then the serpent
changed itself into an old ancient man, who told him such things as
were never heard. Hold your peace, señor; for if you were to hear this
you would go mad with delight. A couple of figs for your Great Captain
and your Diego García!”
Hearing this Dorothea said in a whisper to Cardenio, “Our landlord is
almost fit to play a second part to Don Quixote.”
“I think so,” said Cardenio, “for, as he shows, he accepts it as a
certainty that everything those books relate took place exactly as it
is written down; and the barefooted friars themselves would not
persuade him to the contrary.”
“But consider, brother,” said the curate once more, “there never was
any Felixmarte of Hircania in the world, nor any Cirongilio of Thrace,
or any of the other knights of the same sort, that the books of
chivalry talk of; the whole thing is the fabrication and invention of
idle wits, devised by them for the purpose you describe of beguiling
the time, as your reapers do when they read; for I swear to you in all
seriousness there never were any such knights in the world, and no such
exploits or nonsense ever happened anywhere.”
“Try that bone on another dog,” said the landlord; “as if I did not
know how many make five, and where my shoe pinches me; don’t think to
feed me with pap, for by God I am no fool. It is a good joke for your
worship to try and persuade me that everything these good books say is
nonsense and lies, and they printed by the license of the Lords of the
Royal Council, as if they were people who would allow such a lot of
lies to be printed all together, and so many battles and enchantments
that they take away one’s senses.”
“I have told you, friend,” said the curate, “that this is done to
divert our idle thoughts; and as in well-ordered states games of chess,
fives, and billiards are allowed for the diversion of those who do not
care, or are not obliged, or are unable to work, so books of this kind
are allowed to be printed, on the supposition that, what indeed is the
truth, there can be nobody so ignorant as to take any of them for true
stories; and if it were permitted me now, and the present company
desired it, I could say something about the qualities books of chivalry
should possess to be good ones, that would be to the advantage and even
to the taste of some; but I hope the time will come when I can
communicate my ideas to someone who may be able to mend matters; and in
the meantime, señor landlord, believe what I have said, and take your
books, and make up your mind about their truth or falsehood, and much
good may they do you; and God grant you may not fall lame of the same
foot your guest Don Quixote halts on.”
“No fear of that,” returned the landlord; “I shall not be so mad as to
make a knight-errant of myself; for I see well enough that things are
not now as they used to be in those days, when they say those famous
knights roamed about the world.”
Sancho had made his appearance in the middle of this conversation, and
he was very much troubled and cast down by what he heard said about
knights-errant being now no longer in vogue, and all books of chivalry
being folly and lies; and he resolved in his heart to wait and see what
came of this journey of his master’s, and if it did not turn out as
happily as his master expected, he determined to leave him and go back
to his wife and children and his ordinary labour.
The landlord was carrying away the valise and the books, but the curate
said to him, “Wait; I want to see what those papers are that are
written in such a good hand.” The landlord taking them out handed them
to him to read, and he perceived they were a work of about eight sheets
of manuscript, with, in large letters at the beginning, the title of
“Novel of the Ill-advised Curiosity.” The curate read three or four
lines to himself, and said, “I must say the title of this novel does
not seem to me a bad one, and I feel an inclination to read it all.” To
which the landlord replied, “Then your reverence will do well to read
it, for I can tell you that some guests who have read it here have been
much pleased with it, and have begged it of me very earnestly; but I
would not give it, meaning to return it to the person who forgot the
valise, books, and papers here, for maybe he will return here some time
or other; and though I know I shall miss the books, faith I mean to
return them; for though I am an innkeeper, still I am a Christian.”
“You are very right, friend,” said the curate; “but for all that, if
the novel pleases me you must let me copy it.”
“With all my heart,” replied the host.
While they were talking Cardenio had taken up the novel and begun to
read it, and forming the same opinion of it as the curate, he begged
him to read it so that they might all hear it.
“I would read it,” said the curate, “if the time would not be better
spent in sleeping.”
“It will be rest enough for me,” said Dorothea, “to while away the time
by listening to some tale, for my spirits are not yet tranquil enough
to let me sleep when it would be seasonable.”
“Well then, in that case,” said the curate, “I will read it, if it were
only out of curiosity; perhaps it may contain something pleasant.”
Master Nicholas added his entreaties to the same effect, and Sancho
too; seeing which, and considering that he would give pleasure to all,
and receive it himself, the curate said, “Well then, attend to me
everyone, for the novel begins thus.”
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CHAPTER XXXIII.
IN WHICH IS RELATED THE NOVEL OF “THE ILL-ADVISED CURIOSITY”
In Florence, a rich and famous city of Italy in the province called
Tuscany, there lived two gentlemen of wealth and quality, Anselmo and
Lothario, such great friends that by way of distinction they were
called by all that knew them “The Two Friends.” They were unmarried,
young, of the same age and of the same tastes, which was enough to
account for the reciprocal friendship between them. Anselmo, it is
true, was somewhat more inclined to seek pleasure in love than
Lothario, for whom the pleasures of the chase had more attraction; but
on occasion Anselmo would forego his own tastes to yield to those of
Lothario, and Lothario would surrender his to fall in with those of
Anselmo, and in this way their inclinations kept pace one with the
other with a concord so perfect that the best regulated clock could not
surpass it.
Anselmo was deep in love with a high-born and beautiful maiden of the
same city, the daughter of parents so estimable, and so estimable
herself, that he resolved, with the approval of his friend Lothario,
without whom he did nothing, to ask her of them in marriage, and did
so, Lothario being the bearer of the demand, and conducting the
negotiation so much to the satisfaction of his friend that in a short
time he was in possession of the object of his desires, and Camilla so
happy in having won Anselmo for her husband, that she gave thanks
unceasingly to heaven and to Lothario, by whose means such good fortune
had fallen to her. The first few days, those of a wedding being usually
days of merry-making, Lothario frequented his friend Anselmo’s house as
he had been wont, striving to do honour to him and to the occasion, and
to gratify him in every way he could; but when the wedding days were
over and the succession of visits and congratulations had slackened, he
began purposely to leave off going to the house of Anselmo, for it
seemed to him, as it naturally would to all men of sense, that friends’
houses ought not to be visited after marriage with the same frequency
as in their masters’ bachelor days: because, though true and genuine
friendship cannot and should not be in any way suspicious, still a
married man’s honour is a thing of such delicacy that it is held liable
to injury from brothers, much more from friends. Anselmo remarked the
cessation of Lothario’s visits, and complained of it to him, saying
that if he had known that marriage was to keep him from enjoying his
society as he used, he would have never married; and that, if by the
thorough harmony that subsisted between them while he was a bachelor
they had earned such a sweet name as that of “The Two Friends,” he
should not allow a title so rare and so delightful to be lost through a
needless anxiety to act circumspectly; and so he entreated him, if such
a phrase was allowable between them, to be once more master of his
house and to come in and go out as formerly, assuring him that his wife
Camilla had no other desire or inclination than that which he would
wish her to have, and that knowing how sincerely they loved one another
she was grieved to see such coldness in him.
To all this and much more that Anselmo said to Lothario to persuade him
to come to his house as he had been in the habit of doing, Lothario
replied with so much prudence, sense, and judgment, that Anselmo was
satisfied of his friend’s good intentions, and it was agreed that on
two days in the week, and on holidays, Lothario should come to dine
with him; but though this arrangement was made between them Lothario
resolved to observe it no further than he considered to be in
accordance with the honour of his friend, whose good name was more to
him than his own. He said, and justly, that a married man upon whom
heaven had bestowed a beautiful wife should consider as carefully what
friends he brought to his house as what female friends his wife
associated with, for what cannot be done or arranged in the
market-place, in church, at public festivals or at stations
(opportunities that husbands cannot always deny their wives), may be
easily managed in the house of the female friend or relative in whom
most confidence is reposed. Lothario said, too, that every married man
should have some friend who would point out to him any negligence he
might be guilty of in his conduct, for it will sometimes happen that
owing to the deep affection the husband bears his wife either he does
not caution her, or, not to vex her, refrains from telling her to do or
not to do certain things, doing or avoiding which may be a matter of
honour or reproach to him; and errors of this kind he could easily
correct if warned by a friend. But where is such a friend to be found
as Lothario would have, so judicious, so loyal, and so true?
Of a truth I know not; Lothario alone was such a one, for with the
utmost care and vigilance he watched over the honour of his friend, and
strove to diminish, cut down, and reduce the number of days for going
to his house according to their agreement, lest the visits of a young
man, wealthy, high-born, and with the attractions he was conscious of
possessing, at the house of a woman so beautiful as Camilla, should be
regarded with suspicion by the inquisitive and malicious eyes of the
idle public. For though his integrity and reputation might bridle
slanderous tongues, still he was unwilling to hazard either his own
good name or that of his friend; and for this reason most of the days
agreed upon he devoted to some other business which he pretended was
unavoidable; so that a great portion of the day was taken up with
complaints on one side and excuses on the other. It happened, however,
that on one occasion when the two were strolling together outside the
city, Anselmo addressed the following words to Lothario.
“Thou mayest suppose, Lothario my friend, that I am unable to give
sufficient thanks for the favours God has rendered me in making me the
son of such parents as mine were, and bestowing upon me with no niggard
hand what are called the gifts of nature as well as those of fortune,
and above all for what he has done in giving me thee for a friend and
Camilla for a wife—two treasures that I value, if not as highly as I
ought, at least as highly as I am able. And yet, with all these good
things, which are commonly all that men need to enable them to live
happily, I am the most discontented and dissatisfied man in the whole
world; for, I know not how long since, I have been harassed and
oppressed by a desire so strange and so unusual, that I wonder at
myself and blame and chide myself when I am alone, and strive to stifle
it and hide it from my own thoughts, and with no better success than if
I were endeavouring deliberately to publish it to all the world; and
as, in short, it must come out, I would confide it to thy safe keeping,
feeling sure that by this means, and by thy readiness as a true friend
to afford me relief, I shall soon find myself freed from the distress
it causes me, and that thy care will give me happiness in the same
degree as my own folly has caused me misery.”
The words of Anselmo struck Lothario with astonishment, unable as he
was to conjecture the purport of such a lengthy preamble; and though he
strove to imagine what desire it could be that so troubled his friend,
his conjectures were all far from the truth, and to relieve the anxiety
which this perplexity was causing him, he told him he was doing a
flagrant injustice to their great friendship in seeking circuitous
methods of confiding to him his most hidden thoughts, for he well knew
he might reckon upon his counsel in diverting them, or his help in
carrying them into effect.
“That is the truth,” replied Anselmo, “and relying upon that I will
tell thee, friend Lothario, that the desire which harasses me is that
of knowing whether my wife Camilla is as good and as perfect as I think
her to be; and I cannot satisfy myself of the truth on this point
except by testing her in such a way that the trial may prove the purity
of her virtue as the fire proves that of gold; because I am persuaded,
my friend, that a woman is virtuous only in proportion as she is or is
not tempted; and that she alone is strong who does not yield to the
promises, gifts, tears, and importunities of earnest lovers; for what
thanks does a woman deserve for being good if no one urges her to be
bad, and what wonder is it that she is reserved and circumspect to whom
no opportunity is given of going wrong and who knows she has a husband
that will take her life the first time he detects her in an
impropriety? I do not therefore hold her who is virtuous through fear
or want of opportunity in the same estimation as her who comes out of
temptation and trial with a crown of victory; and so, for these reasons
and many others that I could give thee to justify and support the
opinion I hold, I am desirous that my wife Camilla should pass this
crisis, and be refined and tested by the fire of finding herself wooed
and by one worthy to set his affections upon her; and if she comes out,
as I know she will, victorious from this struggle, I shall look upon my
good fortune as unequalled, I shall be able to say that the cup of my
desire is full, and that the virtuous woman of whom the sage says ‘Who
shall find her?’ has fallen to my lot. And if the result be the
contrary of what I expect, in the satisfaction of knowing that I have
been right in my opinion, I shall bear without complaint the pain which
my so dearly bought experience will naturally cause me. And, as nothing
of all thou wilt urge in opposition to my wish will avail to keep me
from carrying it into effect, it is my desire, friend Lothario, that
thou shouldst consent to become the instrument for effecting this
purpose that I am bent upon, for I will afford thee opportunities to
that end, and nothing shall be wanting that I may think necessary for
the pursuit of a virtuous, honourable, modest and high-minded woman.
And among other reasons, I am induced to entrust this arduous task to
thee by the consideration that if Camilla be conquered by thee the
conquest will not be pushed to extremes, but only far enough to account
that accomplished which from a sense of honour will be left undone;
thus I shall not be wronged in anything more than intention, and my
wrong will remain buried in the integrity of thy silence, which I know
well will be as lasting as that of death in what concerns me. If,
therefore, thou wouldst have me enjoy what can be called life, thou
wilt at once engage in this love struggle, not lukewarmly nor
slothfully, but with the energy and zeal that my desire demands, and
with the loyalty our friendship assures me of.”
Such were the words Anselmo addressed to Lothario, who listened to them
with such attention that, except to say what has been already
mentioned, he did not open his lips until the other had finished. Then
perceiving that he had no more to say, after regarding him for a while,
as one would regard something never before seen that excited wonder and
amazement, he said to him, “I cannot persuade myself, Anselmo my
friend, that what thou hast said to me is not in jest; if I thought
that thou wert speaking seriously I would not have allowed thee to go
so far; so as to put a stop to thy long harangue by not listening to
thee I verily suspect that either thou dost not know me, or I do not
know thee; but no, I know well thou art Anselmo, and thou knowest that
I am Lothario; the misfortune is, it seems to me, that thou art not the
Anselmo thou wert, and must have thought that I am not the Lothario I
should be; for the things that thou hast said to me are not those of
that Anselmo who was my friend, nor are those that thou demandest of me
what should be asked of the Lothario thou knowest. True friends will
prove their friends and make use of them, as a poet has said, _usque ad
aras;_ whereby he meant that they will not make use of their friendship
in things that are contrary to God’s will. If this, then, was a
heathen’s feeling about friendship, how much more should it be a
Christian’s, who knows that the divine must not be forfeited for the
sake of any human friendship? And if a friend should go so far as to
put aside his duty to Heaven to fulfil his duty to his friend, it
should not be in matters that are trifling or of little moment, but in
such as affect the friend’s life and honour. Now tell me, Anselmo, in
which of these two art thou imperilled, that I should hazard myself to
gratify thee, and do a thing so detestable as that thou seekest of me?
Neither forsooth; on the contrary, thou dost ask of me, so far as I
understand, to strive and labour to rob thee of honour and life, and to
rob myself of them at the same time; for if I take away thy honour it
is plain I take away thy life, as a man without honour is worse than
dead; and being the instrument, as thou wilt have it so, of so much
wrong to thee, shall not I, too, be left without honour, and
consequently without life? Listen to me, Anselmo my friend, and be not
impatient to answer me until I have said what occurs to me touching the
object of thy desire, for there will be time enough left for thee to
reply and for me to hear.”
“Be it so,” said Anselmo, “say what thou wilt.”
Lothario then went on to say, “It seems to me, Anselmo, that thine is
just now the temper of mind which is always that of the Moors, who can
never be brought to see the error of their creed by quotations from the
Holy Scriptures, or by reasons which depend upon the examination of the
understanding or are founded upon the articles of faith, but must have
examples that are palpable, easy, intelligible, capable of proof, not
admitting of doubt, with mathematical demonstrations that cannot be
denied, like, ‘_If equals be taken from equals, the remainders are
equal:_’ and if they do not understand this in words, and indeed they
do not, it has to be shown to them with the hands, and put before their
eyes, and even with all this no one succeeds in convincing them of the
truth of our holy religion. This same mode of proceeding I shall have
to adopt with thee, for the desire which has sprung up in thee is so
absurd and remote from everything that has a semblance of reason, that
I feel it would be a waste of time to employ it in reasoning with thy
simplicity, for at present I will call it by no other name; and I am
even tempted to leave thee in thy folly as a punishment for thy
pernicious desire; but the friendship I bear thee, which will not allow
me to desert thee in such manifest danger of destruction, keeps me from
dealing so harshly by thee. And that thou mayest clearly see this, say,
Anselmo, hast thou not told me that I must force my suit upon a modest
woman, decoy one that is virtuous, make overtures to one that is
pure-minded, pay court to one that is prudent? Yes, thou hast told me
so. Then, if thou knowest that thou hast a wife, modest, virtuous,
pure-minded and prudent, what is it that thou seekest? And if thou
believest that she will come forth victorious from all my attacks—as
doubtless she would—what higher titles than those she possesses now
dost thou think thou canst bestow upon her then, or in what will she be
better then than she is now? Either thou dost not hold her to be what
thou sayest, or thou knowest not what thou dost demand. If thou dost
not hold her to be what thou sayest, why dost thou seek to prove her
instead of treating her as guilty in the way that may seem best to
thee? but if she be as virtuous as thou believest, it is an
uncalled-for proceeding to make trial of truth itself, for, after
trial, it will but be in the same estimation as before. Thus, then, it
is conclusive that to attempt things from which harm rather than
advantage may come to us is the part of unreasoning and reckless minds,
more especially when they are things which we are not forced or
compelled to attempt, and which show from afar that it is plainly
madness to attempt them.
“Difficulties are attempted either for the sake of God or for the sake
of the world, or for both; those undertaken for God’s sake are those
which the saints undertake when they attempt to live the lives of
angels in human bodies; those undertaken for the sake of the world are
those of the men who traverse such a vast expanse of water, such a
variety of climates, so many strange countries, to acquire what are
called the blessings of fortune; and those undertaken for the sake of
God and the world together are those of brave soldiers, who no sooner
do they see in the enemy’s wall a breach as wide as a cannon ball could
make, than, casting aside all fear, without hesitating, or heeding the
manifest peril that threatens them, borne onward by the desire of
defending their faith, their country, and their king, they fling
themselves dauntlessly into the midst of the thousand opposing deaths
that await them. Such are the things that men are wont to attempt, and
there is honour, glory, gain, in attempting them, however full of
difficulty and peril they may be; but that which thou sayest it is thy
wish to attempt and carry out will not win thee the glory of God nor
the blessings of fortune nor fame among men; for even if the issue be
as thou wouldst have it, thou wilt be no happier, richer, or more
honoured than thou art this moment; and if it be otherwise thou wilt be
reduced to misery greater than can be imagined, for then it will avail
thee nothing to reflect that no one is aware of the misfortune that has
befallen thee; it will suffice to torture and crush thee that thou
knowest it thyself. And in confirmation of the truth of what I say, let
me repeat to thee a stanza made by the famous poet Luigi Tansillo at
the end of the first part of his ‘Tears of Saint Peter,’ which says
thus:
The anguish and the shame but greater grew
In Peter’s heart as morning slowly came;
No eye was there to see him, well he knew,
Yet he himself was to himself a shame;
Exposed to all men’s gaze, or screened from view,
A noble heart will feel the pang the same;
A prey to shame the sinning soul will be,
Though none but heaven and earth its shame can see.
Thus by keeping it secret thou wilt not escape thy sorrow, but rather
thou wilt shed tears unceasingly, if not tears of the eyes, tears of
blood from the heart, like those shed by that simple doctor our poet
tells us of, that tried the test of the cup, which the wise Rinaldo,
better advised, refused to do; for though this may be a poetic fiction
it contains a moral lesson worthy of attention and study and imitation.
Moreover by what I am about to say to thee thou wilt be led to see the
great error thou wouldst commit.
“Tell me, Anselmo, if Heaven or good fortune had made thee master and
lawful owner of a diamond of the finest quality, with the excellence
and purity of which all the lapidaries that had seen it had been
satisfied, saying with one voice and common consent that in purity,
quality, and fineness, it was all that a stone of the kind could
possibly be, thou thyself too being of the same belief, as knowing
nothing to the contrary, would it be reasonable in thee to desire to
take that diamond and place it between an anvil and a hammer, and by
mere force of blows and strength of arm try if it were as hard and as
fine as they said? And if thou didst, and if the stone should resist so
silly a test, that would add nothing to its value or reputation; and if
it were broken, as it might be, would not all be lost? Undoubtedly it
would, leaving its owner to be rated as a fool in the opinion of all.
Consider, then, Anselmo my friend, that Camilla is a diamond of the
finest quality as well in thy estimation as in that of others, and that
it is contrary to reason to expose her to the risk of being broken; for
if she remains intact she cannot rise to a higher value than she now
possesses; and if she give way and be unable to resist, bethink thee
now how thou wilt be deprived of her, and with what good reason thou
wilt complain of thyself for having been the cause of her ruin and
thine own. Remember there is no jewel in the world so precious as a
chaste and virtuous woman, and that the whole honour of women consists
in reputation; and since thy wife’s is of that high excellence that
thou knowest, wherefore shouldst thou seek to call that truth in
question? Remember, my friend, that woman is an imperfect animal, and
that impediments are not to be placed in her way to make her trip and
fall, but that they should be removed, and her path left clear of all
obstacles, so that without hindrance she may run her course freely to
attain the desired perfection, which consists in being virtuous.
Naturalists tell us that the ermine is a little animal which has a fur
of purest white, and that when the hunters wish to take it, they make
use of this artifice. Having ascertained the places which it frequents
and passes, they stop the way to them with mud, and then rousing it,
drive it towards the spot, and as soon as the ermine comes to the mud
it halts, and allows itself to be taken captive rather than pass
through the mire, and spoil and sully its whiteness, which it values
more than life and liberty. The virtuous and chaste woman is an ermine,
and whiter and purer than snow is the virtue of modesty; and he who
wishes her not to lose it, but to keep and preserve it, must adopt a
course different from that employed with the ermine; he must not put
before her the mire of the gifts and attentions of persevering lovers,
because perhaps—and even without a perhaps—she may not have sufficient
virtue and natural strength in herself to pass through and tread under
foot these impediments; they must be removed, and the brightness of
virtue and the beauty of a fair fame must be put before her. A virtuous
woman, too, is like a mirror, of clear shining crystal, liable to be
tarnished and dimmed by every breath that touches it. She must be
treated as relics are; adored, not touched. She must be protected and
prized as one protects and prizes a fair garden full of roses and
flowers, the owner of which allows no one to trespass or pluck a
blossom; enough for others that from afar and through the iron grating
they may enjoy its fragrance and its beauty. Finally let me repeat to
thee some verses that come to my mind; I heard them in a modern comedy,
and it seems to me they bear upon the point we are discussing. A
prudent old man was giving advice to another, the father of a young
girl, to lock her up, watch over her and keep her in seclusion, and
among other arguments he used these:
Woman is a thing of glass;
But her brittleness ’tis best
Not too curiously to test:
Who knows what may come to pass?
Breaking is an easy matter,
And it’s folly to expose
What you cannot mend to blows;
What you can’t make whole to shatter.
This, then, all may hold as true,
And the reason’s plain to see;
For if Danaës there be,
There are golden showers too.
“All that I have said to thee so far, Anselmo, has had reference to
what concerns thee; now it is right that I should say something of what
regards myself; and if I be prolix, pardon me, for the labyrinth into
which thou hast entered and from which thou wouldst have me extricate
thee makes it necessary.
“Thou dost reckon me thy friend, and thou wouldst rob me of honour, a
thing wholly inconsistent with friendship; and not only dost thou aim
at this, but thou wouldst have me rob thee of it also. That thou
wouldst rob me of it is clear, for when Camilla sees that I pay court
to her as thou requirest, she will certainly regard me as a man without
honour or right feeling, since I attempt and do a thing so much opposed
to what I owe to my own position and thy friendship. That thou wouldst
have me rob thee of it is beyond a doubt, for Camilla, seeing that I
press my suit upon her, will suppose that I have perceived in her
something light that has encouraged me to make known to her my base
desire; and if she holds herself dishonoured, her dishonour touches
thee as belonging to her; and hence arises what so commonly takes
place, that the husband of the adulterous woman, though he may not be
aware of or have given any cause for his wife’s failure in her duty, or
(being careless or negligent) have had it in his power to prevent his
dishonour, nevertheless is stigmatised by a vile and reproachful name,
and in a manner regarded with eyes of contempt instead of pity by all
who know of his wife’s guilt, though they see that he is unfortunate
not by his own fault, but by the lust of a vicious consort. But I will
tell thee why with good reason dishonour attaches to the husband of the
unchaste wife, though he know not that she is so, nor be to blame, nor
have done anything, or given any provocation to make her so; and be not
weary with listening to me, for it will be for thy good.
“When God created our first parent in the earthly paradise, the Holy
Scripture says that he infused sleep into Adam and while he slept took
a rib from his left side of which he formed our mother Eve, and when
Adam awoke and beheld her he said, ‘This is flesh of my flesh, and bone
of my bone.’ And God said ‘For this shall a man leave his father and
his mother, and they shall be two in one flesh; and then was instituted
the divine sacrament of marriage, with such ties that death alone can
loose them. And such is the force and virtue of this miraculous
sacrament that it makes two different persons one and the same flesh;
and even more than this when the virtuous are married; for though they
have two souls they have but one will. And hence it follows that as the
flesh of the wife is one and the same with that of her husband the
stains that may come upon it, or the injuries it incurs fall upon the
husband’s flesh, though he, as has been said, may have given no cause
for them; for as the pain of the foot or any member of the body is felt
by the whole body, because all is one flesh, as the head feels the hurt
to the ankle without having caused it, so the husband, being one with
her, shares the dishonour of the wife; and as all worldly honour or
dishonour comes of flesh and blood, and the erring wife’s is of that
kind, the husband must needs bear his part of it and be held
dishonoured without knowing it. See, then, Anselmo, the peril thou art
encountering in seeking to disturb the peace of thy virtuous consort;
see for what an empty and ill-advised curiosity thou wouldst rouse up
passions that now repose in quiet in the breast of thy chaste wife;
reflect that what thou art staking all to win is little, and what thou
wilt lose so much that I leave it undescribed, not having the words to
express it. But if all I have said be not enough to turn thee from thy
vile purpose, thou must seek some other instrument for thy dishonour
and misfortune; for such I will not consent to be, though I lose thy
friendship, the greatest loss that I can conceive.”
Having said this, the wise and virtuous Lothario was silent, and
Anselmo, troubled in mind and deep in thought, was unable for a while
to utter a word in reply; but at length he said, “I have listened,
Lothario my friend, attentively, as thou hast seen, to what thou hast
chosen to say to me, and in thy arguments, examples, and comparisons I
have seen that high intelligence thou dost possess, and the perfection
of true friendship thou hast reached; and likewise I see and confess
that if I am not guided by thy opinion, but follow my own, I am flying
from the good and pursuing the evil. This being so, thou must remember
that I am now labouring under that infirmity which women sometimes
suffer from, when the craving seizes them to eat clay, plaster,
charcoal, and things even worse, disgusting to look at, much more to
eat; so that it will be necessary to have recourse to some artifice to
cure me; and this can be easily effected if only thou wilt make a
beginning, even though it be in a lukewarm and make-believe fashion, to
pay court to Camilla, who will not be so yielding that her virtue will
give way at the first attack: with this mere attempt I shall rest
satisfied, and thou wilt have done what our friendship binds thee to
do, not only in giving me life, but in persuading me not to discard my
honour. And this thou art bound to do for one reason alone, that,
being, as I am, resolved to apply this test, it is not for thee to
permit me to reveal my weakness to another, and so imperil that honour
thou art striving to keep me from losing; and if thine may not stand as
high as it ought in the estimation of Camilla while thou art paying
court to her, that is of little or no importance, because ere long, on
finding in her that constancy which we expect, thou canst tell her the
plain truth as regards our stratagem, and so regain thy place in her
esteem; and as thou art venturing so little, and by the venture canst
afford me so much satisfaction, refuse not to undertake it, even if
further difficulties present themselves to thee; for, as I have said,
if thou wilt only make a beginning I will acknowledge the issue
decided.”
Lothario seeing the fixed determination of Anselmo, and not knowing
what further examples to offer or arguments to urge in order to
dissuade him from it, and perceiving that he threatened to confide his
pernicious scheme to someone else, to avoid a greater evil resolved to
gratify him and do what he asked, intending to manage the business so
as to satisfy Anselmo without corrupting the mind of Camilla; so in
reply he told him not to communicate his purpose to any other, for he
would undertake the task himself, and would begin it as soon as he
pleased. Anselmo embraced him warmly and affectionately, and thanked
him for his offer as if he had bestowed some great favour upon him; and
it was agreed between them to set about it the next day, Anselmo
affording opportunity and time to Lothario to converse alone with
Camilla, and furnishing him with money and jewels to offer and present
to her. He suggested, too, that he should treat her to music, and write
verses in her praise, and if he was unwilling to take the trouble of
composing them, he offered to do it himself. Lothario agreed to all
with an intention very different from what Anselmo supposed, and with
this understanding they returned to Anselmo’s house, where they found
Camilla awaiting her husband anxiously and uneasily, for he was later
than usual in returning that day. Lothario repaired to his own house,
and Anselmo remained in his, as well satisfied as Lothario was troubled
in mind; for he could see no satisfactory way out of this ill-advised
business. That night, however, he thought of a plan by which he might
deceive Anselmo without any injury to Camilla. The next day he went to
dine with his friend, and was welcomed by Camilla, who received and
treated him with great cordiality, knowing the affection her husband
felt for him. When dinner was over and the cloth removed, Anselmo told
Lothario to stay there with Camilla while he attended to some pressing
business, as he would return in an hour and a half. Camilla begged him
not to go, and Lothario offered to accompany him, but nothing could
persuade Anselmo, who on the contrary pressed Lothario to remain
waiting for him as he had a matter of great importance to discuss with
him. At the same time he bade Camilla not to leave Lothario alone until
he came back. In short he contrived to put so good a face on the
reason, or the folly, of his absence that no one could have suspected
it was a pretence.
Anselmo took his departure, and Camilla and Lothario were left alone at
the table, for the rest of the household had gone to dinner. Lothario
saw himself in the lists according to his friend’s wish, and facing an
enemy that could by her beauty alone vanquish a squadron of armed
knights; judge whether he had good reason to fear; but what he did was
to lean his elbow on the arm of the chair, and his cheek upon his hand,
and, asking Camilla’s pardon for his ill manners, he said he wished to
take a little sleep until Anselmo returned. Camilla in reply said he
could repose more at his ease in the reception-room than in his chair,
and begged of him to go in and sleep there; but Lothario declined, and
there he remained asleep until the return of Anselmo, who finding
Camilla in her own room, and Lothario asleep, imagined that he had
stayed away so long as to have afforded them time enough for
conversation and even for sleep, and was all impatience until Lothario
should wake up, that he might go out with him and question him as to
his success. Everything fell out as he wished; Lothario awoke, and the
two at once left the house, and Anselmo asked what he was anxious to
know, and Lothario in answer told him that he had not thought it
advisable to declare himself entirely the first time, and therefore had
only extolled the charms of Camilla, telling her that all the city
spoke of nothing else but her beauty and wit, for this seemed to him an
excellent way of beginning to gain her good-will and render her
disposed to listen to him with pleasure the next time, thus availing
himself of the device the devil has recourse to when he would deceive
one who is on the watch; for he being the angel of darkness transforms
himself into an angel of light, and, under cover of a fair seeming,
discloses himself at length, and effects his purpose if at the
beginning his wiles are not discovered. All this gave great
satisfaction to Anselmo, and he said he would afford the same
opportunity every day, but without leaving the house, for he would find
things to do at home so that Camilla should not detect the plot.
Thus, then, several days went by, and Lothario, without uttering a word
to Camilla, reported to Anselmo that he had talked with her and that he
had never been able to draw from her the slightest indication of
consent to anything dishonourable, nor even a sign or shadow of hope;
on the contrary, he said she would inform her husband of it.
“So far well,” said Anselmo; “Camilla has thus far resisted words; we
must now see how she will resist deeds. I will give you to-morrow two
thousand crowns in gold for you to offer or even present, and as many
more to buy jewels to lure her, for women are fond of being becomingly
attired and going gaily dressed, and all the more so if they are
beautiful, however chaste they may be; and if she resists this
temptation, I will rest satisfied and will give you no more trouble.”
Lothario replied that now he had begun he would carry on the
undertaking to the end, though he perceived he was to come out of it
wearied and vanquished. The next day he received the four thousand
crowns, and with them four thousand perplexities, for he knew not what
to say by way of a new falsehood; but in the end he made up his mind to
tell him that Camilla stood as firm against gifts and promises as
against words, and that there was no use in taking any further trouble,
for the time was all spent to no purpose.
But chance, directing things in a different manner, so ordered it that
Anselmo, having left Lothario and Camilla alone as on other occasions,
shut himself into a chamber and posted himself to watch and listen
through the keyhole to what passed between them, and perceived that for
more than half an hour Lothario did not utter a word to Camilla, nor
would utter a word though he were to be there for an age; and he came
to the conclusion that what his friend had told him about the replies
of Camilla was all invention and falsehood, and to ascertain if it were
so, he came out, and calling Lothario aside asked him what news he had
and in what humour Camilla was. Lothario replied that he was not
disposed to go on with the business, for she had answered him so
angrily and harshly that he had no heart to say anything more to her.
“Ah, Lothario, Lothario,” said Anselmo, “how ill dost thou meet thy
obligations to me, and the great confidence I repose in thee! I have
been just now watching through this keyhole, and I have seen that thou
hast not said a word to Camilla, whence I conclude that on the former
occasions thou hast not spoken to her either, and if this be so, as no
doubt it is, why dost thou deceive me, or wherefore seekest thou by
craft to deprive me of the means I might find of attaining my desire?”
Anselmo said no more, but he had said enough to cover Lothario with
shame and confusion, and he, feeling as it were his honour touched by
having been detected in a lie, swore to Anselmo that he would from that
moment devote himself to satisfying him without any deception, as he
would see if he had the curiosity to watch; though he need not take the
trouble, for the pains he would take to satisfy him would remove all
suspicions from his mind. Anselmo believed him, and to afford him an
opportunity more free and less liable to surprise, he resolved to
absent himself from his house for eight days, betaking himself to that
of a friend of his who lived in a village not far from the city; and,
the better to account for his departure to Camilla, he so arranged it
that the friend should send him a very pressing invitation.
Unhappy, shortsighted Anselmo, what art thou doing, what art thou
plotting, what art thou devising? Bethink thee thou art working against
thyself, plotting thine own dishonour, devising thine own ruin. Thy
wife Camilla is virtuous, thou dost possess her in peace and quietness,
no one assails thy happiness, her thoughts wander not beyond the walls
of thy house, thou art her heaven on earth, the object of her wishes,
the fulfilment of her desires, the measure wherewith she measures her
will, making it conform in all things to thine and Heaven’s. If, then,
the mine of her honour, beauty, virtue, and modesty yields thee without
labour all the wealth it contains and thou canst wish for, why wilt
thou dig the earth in search of fresh veins, of new unknown treasure,
risking the collapse of all, since it but rests on the feeble props of
her weak nature? Bethink thee that from him who seeks impossibilities
that which is possible may with justice be withheld, as was better
expressed by a poet who said:
’Tis mine to seek for life in death,
Health in disease seek I,
I seek in prison freedom’s breath,
In traitors loyalty.
So Fate that ever scorns to grant
Or grace or boon to me,
Since what can never be I want,
Denies me what might be.
The next day Anselmo took his departure for the village, leaving
instructions with Camilla that during his absence Lothario would come
to look after his house and to dine with her, and that she was to treat
him as she would himself. Camilla was distressed, as a discreet and
right-minded woman would be, at the orders her husband left her, and
bade him remember that it was not becoming that anyone should occupy
his seat at the table during his absence, and if he acted thus from not
feeling confidence that she would be able to manage his house, let him
try her this time, and he would find by experience that she was equal
to greater responsibilities. Anselmo replied that it was his pleasure
to have it so, and that she had only to submit and obey. Camilla said
she would do so, though against her will.
Anselmo went, and the next day Lothario came to his house, where he was
received by Camilla with a friendly and modest welcome; but she never
suffered Lothario to see her alone, for she was always attended by her
men and women servants, especially by a handmaid of hers, Leonela by
name, to whom she was much attached (for they had been brought up
together from childhood in her father’s house), and whom she had kept
with her after her marriage with Anselmo. The first three days Lothario
did not speak to her, though he might have done so when they removed
the cloth and the servants retired to dine hastily; for such were
Camilla’s orders; nay more, Leonela had directions to dine earlier than
Camilla and never to leave her side. She, however, having her thoughts
fixed upon other things more to her taste, and wanting that time and
opportunity for her own pleasures, did not always obey her mistress’s
commands, but on the contrary left them alone, as if they had ordered
her to do so; but the modest bearing of Camilla, the calmness of her
countenance, the composure of her aspect were enough to bridle the
tongue of Lothario. But the influence which the many virtues of Camilla
exerted in imposing silence on Lothario’s tongue proved mischievous for
both of them, for if his tongue was silent his thoughts were busy, and
could dwell at leisure upon the perfections of Camilla’s goodness and
beauty one by one, charms enough to warm with love a marble statue, not
to say a heart of flesh. Lothario gazed upon her when he might have
been speaking to her, and thought how worthy of being loved she was;
and thus reflection began little by little to assail his allegiance to
Anselmo, and a thousand times he thought of withdrawing from the city
and going where Anselmo should never see him nor he see Camilla. But
already the delight he found in gazing on her interposed and held him
fast. He put a constraint upon himself, and struggled to repel and
repress the pleasure he found in contemplating Camilla; when alone he
blamed himself for his weakness, called himself a bad friend, nay a bad
Christian; then he argued the matter and compared himself with Anselmo;
always coming to the conclusion that the folly and rashness of Anselmo
had been worse than his faithlessness, and that if he could excuse his
intentions as easily before God as with man, he had no reason to fear
any punishment for his offence.
In short the beauty and goodness of Camilla, joined with the
opportunity which the blind husband had placed in his hands, overthrew
the loyalty of Lothario; and giving heed to nothing save the object
towards which his inclinations led him, after Anselmo had been three
days absent, during which he had been carrying on a continual struggle
with his passion, he began to make love to Camilla with so much
vehemence and warmth of language that she was overwhelmed with
amazement, and could only rise from her place and retire to her room
without answering him a word. But the hope which always springs up with
love was not weakened in Lothario by this repelling demeanour; on the
contrary his passion for Camilla increased, and she discovering in him
what she had never expected, knew not what to do; and considering it
neither safe nor right to give him the chance or opportunity of
speaking to her again, she resolved to send, as she did that very
night, one of her servants with a letter to Anselmo, in which she
addressed the following words to him.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
IN WHICH IS CONTINUED THE NOVEL OF “THE ILL-ADVISED CURIOSITY”
“It is commonly said that an army looks ill without its general and a
castle without its castellan, and I say that a young married woman
looks still worse without her husband unless there are very good
reasons for it. I find myself so ill at ease without you, and so
incapable of enduring this separation, that unless you return quickly I
shall have to go for relief to my parents’ house, even if I leave yours
without a protector; for the one you left me, if indeed he deserved
that title, has, I think, more regard to his own pleasure than to what
concerns you: as you are possessed of discernment I need say no more to
you, nor indeed is it fitting I should say more.”
Anselmo received this letter, and from it he gathered that Lothario had
already begun his task and that Camilla must have replied to him as he
would have wished; and delighted beyond measure at such intelligence he
sent word to her not to leave his house on any account, as he would
very shortly return. Camilla was astonished at Anselmo’s reply, which
placed her in greater perplexity than before, for she neither dared to
remain in her own house, nor yet to go to her parents’; for in
remaining her virtue was imperilled, and in going she was opposing her
husband’s commands. Finally she decided upon what was the worse course
for her, to remain, resolving not to fly from the presence of Lothario,
that she might not give food for gossip to her servants; and she now
began to regret having written as she had to her husband, fearing he
might imagine that Lothario had perceived in her some lightness which
had impelled him to lay aside the respect he owed her; but confident of
her rectitude she put her trust in God and in her own virtuous
intentions, with which she hoped to resist in silence all the
solicitations of Lothario, without saying anything to her husband so as
not to involve him in any quarrel or trouble; and she even began to
consider how to excuse Lothario to Anselmo when he should ask her what
it was that induced her to write that letter. With these resolutions,
more honourable than judicious or effectual, she remained the next day
listening to Lothario, who pressed his suit so strenuously that
Camilla’s firmness began to waver, and her virtue had enough to do to
come to the rescue of her eyes and keep them from showing signs of a
certain tender compassion which the tears and appeals of Lothario had
awakened in her bosom. Lothario observed all this, and it inflamed him
all the more. In short he felt that while Anselmo’s absence afforded
time and opportunity he must press the siege of the fortress, and so he
assailed her self-esteem with praises of her beauty, for there is
nothing that more quickly reduces and levels the castle towers of fair
women’s vanity than vanity itself upon the tongue of flattery. In fact
with the utmost assiduity he undermined the rock of her purity with
such engines that had Camilla been of brass she must have fallen. He
wept, he entreated, he promised, he flattered, he importuned, he
pretended with so much feeling and apparent sincerity, that he
overthrew the virtuous resolves of Camilla and won the triumph he least
expected and most longed for. Camilla yielded, Camilla fell; but what
wonder if the friendship of Lothario could not stand firm? A clear
proof to us that the passion of love is to be conquered only by flying
from it, and that no one should engage in a struggle with an enemy so
mighty; for divine strength is needed to overcome his human power.
Leonela alone knew of her mistress’s weakness, for the two false
friends and new lovers were unable to conceal it. Lothario did not care
to tell Camilla the object Anselmo had in view, nor that he had
afforded him the opportunity of attaining such a result, lest she
should undervalue his love and think that it was by chance and without
intending it and not of his own accord that he had made love to her.
A few days later Anselmo returned to his house and did not perceive
what it had lost, that which he so lightly treated and so highly
prized. He went at once to see Lothario, and found him at home; they
embraced each other, and Anselmo asked for the tidings of his life or
his death.
“The tidings I have to give thee, Anselmo my friend,” said Lothario,
“are that thou dost possess a wife that is worthy to be the pattern and
crown of all good wives. The words that I have addressed to her were
borne away on the wind, my promises have been despised, my presents
have been refused, such feigned tears as I shed have been turned into
open ridicule. In short, as Camilla is the essence of all beauty, so is
she the treasure-house where purity dwells, and gentleness and modesty
abide with all the virtues that can confer praise, honour, and
happiness upon a woman. Take back thy money, my friend; here it is, and
I have had no need to touch it, for the chastity of Camilla yields not
to things so base as gifts or promises. Be content, Anselmo, and
refrain from making further proof; and as thou hast passed dryshod
through the sea of those doubts and suspicions that are and may be
entertained of women, seek not to plunge again into the deep ocean of
new embarrassments, or with another pilot make trial of the goodness
and strength of the bark that Heaven has granted thee for thy passage
across the sea of this world; but reckon thyself now safe in port, moor
thyself with the anchor of sound reflection, and rest in peace until
thou art called upon to pay that debt which no nobility on earth can
escape paying.”
Anselmo was completely satisfied by the words of Lothario, and believed
them as fully as if they had been spoken by an oracle; nevertheless he
begged of him not to relinquish the undertaking, were it but for the
sake of curiosity and amusement; though thenceforward he need not make
use of the same earnest endeavours as before; all he wished him to do
was to write some verses to her, praising her under the name of
Chloris, for he himself would give her to understand that he was in
love with a lady to whom he had given that name to enable him to sing
her praises with the decorum due to her modesty; and if Lothario were
unwilling to take the trouble of writing the verses he would compose
them himself.
“That will not be necessary,” said Lothario, “for the muses are not
such enemies of mine but that they visit me now and then in the course
of the year. Do thou tell Camilla what thou hast proposed about a
pretended amour of mine; as for the verses I will make them, and if not
as good as the subject deserves, they shall be at least the best I can
produce.” An agreement to this effect was made between the friends, the
ill-advised one and the treacherous, and Anselmo returning to his house
asked Camilla the question she already wondered he had not asked
before—what it was that had caused her to write the letter she had sent
him. Camilla replied that it had seemed to her that Lothario looked at
her somewhat more freely than when he had been at home; but that now
she was undeceived and believed it to have been only her own
imagination, for Lothario now avoided seeing her, or being alone with
her. Anselmo told her she might be quite easy on the score of that
suspicion, for he knew that Lothario was in love with a damsel of rank
in the city whom he celebrated under the name of Chloris, and that even
if he were not, his fidelity and their great friendship left no room
for fear. Had not Camilla, however, been informed beforehand by
Lothario that this love for Chloris was a pretence, and that he himself
had told Anselmo of it in order to be able sometimes to give utterance
to the praises of Camilla herself, no doubt she would have fallen into
the despairing toils of jealousy; but being forewarned she received the
startling news without uneasiness.
The next day as the three were at table Anselmo asked Lothario to
recite something of what he had composed for his mistress Chloris; for
as Camilla did not know her, he might safely say what he liked.
“Even did she know her,” returned Lothario, “I would hide nothing, for
when a lover praises his lady’s beauty, and charges her with cruelty,
he casts no imputation upon her fair name; at any rate, all I can say
is that yesterday I made a sonnet on the ingratitude of this Chloris,
which goes thus:
SONNET
At midnight, in the silence, when the eyes
Of happier mortals balmy slumbers close,
The weary tale of my unnumbered woes
To Chloris and to Heaven is wont to rise.
And when the light of day returning dyes
The portals of the east with tints of rose,
With undiminished force my sorrow flows
In broken accents and in burning sighs.
And when the sun ascends his star-girt throne,
And on the earth pours down his midday beams,
Noon but renews my wailing and my tears;
And with the night again goes up my moan.
Yet ever in my agony it seems
To me that neither Heaven nor Chloris hears.”
The sonnet pleased Camilla, and still more Anselmo, for he praised it
and said the lady was excessively cruel who made no return for
sincerity so manifest. On which Camilla said, “Then all that
love-smitten poets say is true?”
“As poets they do not tell the truth,” replied Lothario; “but as lovers
they are not more defective in expression than they are truthful.”
“There is no doubt of that,” observed Anselmo, anxious to support and
uphold Lothario’s ideas with Camilla, who was as regardless of his
design as she was deep in love with Lothario; and so taking delight in
anything that was his, and knowing that his thoughts and writings had
her for their object, and that she herself was the real Chloris, she
asked him to repeat some other sonnet or verses if he recollected any.
“I do,” replied Lothario, “but I do not think it as good as the first
one, or, more correctly speaking, less bad; but you can easily judge,
for it is this.
SONNET
I know that I am doomed; death is to me
As certain as that thou, ungrateful fair,
Dead at thy feet shouldst see me lying, ere
My heart repented of its love for thee.
If buried in oblivion I should be,
Bereft of life, fame, favour, even there
It would be found that I thy image bear
Deep graven in my breast for all to see.
This like some holy relic do I prize
To save me from the fate my truth entails,
Truth that to thy hard heart its vigour owes.
Alas for him that under lowering skies,
In peril o’er a trackless ocean sails,
Where neither friendly port nor pole-star shows.”
Anselmo praised this second sonnet too, as he had praised the first;
and so he went on adding link after link to the chain with which he was
binding himself and making his dishonour secure; for when Lothario was
doing most to dishonour him he told him he was most honoured; and thus
each step that Camilla descended towards the depths of her abasement,
she mounted, in his opinion, towards the summit of virtue and fair
fame.
It so happened that finding herself on one occasion alone with her
maid, Camilla said to her, “I am ashamed to think, my dear Leonela, how
lightly I have valued myself that I did not compel Lothario to purchase
by at least some expenditure of time that full possession of me that I
so quickly yielded him of my own free will. I fear that he will think
ill of my pliancy or lightness, not considering the irresistible
influence he brought to bear upon me.”
“Let not that trouble you, my lady,” said Leonela, “for it does not
take away the value of the thing given or make it the less precious to
give it quickly if it be really valuable and worthy of being prized;
nay, they are wont to say that he who gives quickly gives twice.”
“They say also,” said Camilla, “that what costs little is valued less.”
“That saying does not hold good in your case,” replied Leonela, “for
love, as I have heard say, sometimes flies and sometimes walks; with
this one it runs, with that it moves slowly; some it cools, others it
burns; some it wounds, others it slays; it begins the course of its
desires, and at the same moment completes and ends it; in the morning
it will lay siege to a fortress and by night will have taken it, for
there is no power that can resist it; so what are you in dread of, what
do you fear, when the same must have befallen Lothario, love having
chosen the absence of my lord as the instrument for subduing you? and
it was absolutely necessary to complete then what love had resolved
upon, without affording the time to let Anselmo return and by his
presence compel the work to be left unfinished; for love has no better
agent for carrying out his designs than opportunity; and of opportunity
he avails himself in all his feats, especially at the outset. All this
I know well myself, more by experience than by hearsay, and some day,
señora, I will enlighten you on the subject, for I am of your flesh and
blood too. Moreover, lady Camilla, you did not surrender yourself or
yield so quickly but that first you saw Lothario’s whole soul in his
eyes, in his sighs, in his words, his promises and his gifts, and by it
and his good qualities perceived how worthy he was of your love. This,
then, being the case, let not these scrupulous and prudish ideas
trouble your imagination, but be assured that Lothario prizes you as
you do him, and rest content and satisfied that as you are caught in
the noose of love it is one of worth and merit that has taken you, and
one that has not only the four S’s that they say true lovers ought to
have, but a complete alphabet; only listen to me and you will see how I
can repeat it by rote. He is to my eyes and thinking, Amiable, Brave,
Courteous, Distinguished, Elegant, Fond, Gay, Honourable, Illustrious,
Loyal, Manly, Noble, Open, Polite, Quickwitted, Rich, and the S’s
according to the saying, and then Tender, Veracious: X does not suit
him, for it is a rough letter; Y has been given already; and Z Zealous
for your honour.”
Camilla laughed at her maid’s alphabet, and perceived her to be more
experienced in love affairs than she said, which she admitted,
confessing to Camilla that she had love passages with a young man of
good birth of the same city. Camilla was uneasy at this, dreading lest
it might prove the means of endangering her honour, and asked whether
her intrigue had gone beyond words, and she with little shame and much
effrontery said it had; for certain it is that ladies’ imprudences make
servants shameless, who, when they see their mistresses make a false
step, think nothing of going astray themselves, or of its being known.
All that Camilla could do was to entreat Leonela to say nothing about
her doings to him whom she called her lover, and to conduct her own
affairs secretly lest they should come to the knowledge of Anselmo or
of Lothario. Leonela said she would, but kept her word in such a way
that she confirmed Camilla’s apprehension of losing her reputation
through her means; for this abandoned and bold Leonela, as soon as she
perceived that her mistress’s demeanour was not what it was wont to be,
had the audacity to introduce her lover into the house, confident that
even if her mistress saw him she would not dare to expose him; for the
sins of mistresses entail this mischief among others; they make
themselves the slaves of their own servants, and are obliged to hide
their laxities and depravities; as was the case with Camilla, who
though she perceived, not once but many times, that Leonela was with
her lover in some room of the house, not only did not dare to chide
her, but afforded her opportunities for concealing him and removed all
difficulties, lest he should be seen by her husband. She was unable,
however, to prevent him from being seen on one occasion, as he sallied
forth at daybreak, by Lothario, who, not knowing who he was, at first
took him for a spectre; but, as soon as he saw him hasten away,
muffling his face with his cloak and concealing himself carefully and
cautiously, he rejected this foolish idea, and adopted another, which
would have been the ruin of all had not Camilla found a remedy. It did
not occur to Lothario that this man he had seen issuing at such an
untimely hour from Anselmo’s house could have entered it on Leonela’s
account, nor did he even remember there was such a person as Leonela;
all he thought was that as Camilla had been light and yielding with
him, so she had been with another; for this further penalty the erring
woman’s sin brings with it, that her honour is distrusted even by him
to whose overtures and persuasions she has yielded; and he believes her
to have surrendered more easily to others, and gives implicit credence
to every suspicion that comes into his mind. All Lothario’s good sense
seems to have failed him at this juncture; all his prudent maxims
escaped his memory; for without once reflecting rationally, and without
more ado, in his impatience and in the blindness of the jealous rage
that gnawed his heart, and dying to revenge himself upon Camilla, who
had done him no wrong, before Anselmo had risen he hastened to him and
said to him, “Know, Anselmo, that for several days past I have been
struggling with myself, striving to withhold from thee what it is no
longer possible or right that I should conceal from thee. Know that
Camilla’s fortress has surrendered and is ready to submit to my will;
and if I have been slow to reveal this fact to thee, it was in order to
see if it were some light caprice of hers, or if she sought to try me
and ascertain if the love I began to make to her with thy permission
was made with a serious intention. I thought, too, that she, if she
were what she ought to be, and what we both believed her, would have
ere this given thee information of my addresses; but seeing that she
delays, I believe the truth of the promise she has given me that the
next time thou art absent from the house she will grant me an interview
in the closet where thy jewels are kept (and it was true that Camilla
used to meet him there); but I do not wish thee to rush precipitately
to take vengeance, for the sin is as yet only committed in intention,
and Camilla’s may change perhaps between this and the appointed time,
and repentance spring up in its place. As hitherto thou hast always
followed my advice wholly or in part, follow and observe this that I
will give thee now, so that, without mistake, and with mature
deliberation, thou mayest satisfy thyself as to what may seem the best
course; pretend to absent thyself for two or three days as thou hast
been wont to do on other occasions, and contrive to hide thyself in the
closet; for the tapestries and other things there afford great
facilities for thy concealment, and then thou wilt see with thine own
eyes and I with mine what Camilla’s purpose may be. And if it be a
guilty one, which may be feared rather than expected, with silence,
prudence, and discretion thou canst thyself become the instrument of
punishment for the wrong done thee.”
Anselmo was amazed, overwhelmed, and astounded at the words of
Lothario, which came upon him at a time when he least expected to hear
them, for he now looked upon Camilla as having triumphed over the
pretended attacks of Lothario, and was beginning to enjoy the glory of
her victory. He remained silent for a considerable time, looking on the
ground with fixed gaze, and at length said, “Thou hast behaved,
Lothario, as I expected of thy friendship: I will follow thy advice in
everything; do as thou wilt, and keep this secret as thou seest it
should be kept in circumstances so unlooked for.”
Lothario gave him his word, but after leaving him he repented
altogether of what he had said to him, perceiving how foolishly he had
acted, as he might have revenged himself upon Camilla in some less
cruel and degrading way. He cursed his want of sense, condemned his
hasty resolution, and knew not what course to take to undo the mischief
or find some ready escape from it. At last he decided upon revealing
all to Camilla, and, as there was no want of opportunity for doing so,
he found her alone the same day; but she, as soon as she had the chance
of speaking to him, said, “Lothario my friend, I must tell thee I have
a sorrow in my heart which fills it so that it seems ready to burst;
and it will be a wonder if it does not; for the audacity of Leonela has
now reached such a pitch that every night she conceals a gallant of
hers in this house and remains with him till morning, at the expense of
my reputation; inasmuch as it is open to anyone to question it who may
see him quitting my house at such unseasonable hours; but what
distresses me is that I cannot punish or chide her, for her privity to
our intrigue bridles my mouth and keeps me silent about hers, while I
am dreading that some catastrophe will come of it.”
As Camilla said this Lothario at first imagined it was some device to
delude him into the idea that the man he had seen going out was
Leonela’s lover and not hers; but when he saw how she wept and
suffered, and begged him to help her, he became convinced of the truth,
and the conviction completed his confusion and remorse; however, he
told Camilla not to distress herself, as he would take measures to put
a stop to the insolence of Leonela. At the same time he told her what,
driven by the fierce rage of jealousy, he had said to Anselmo, and how
he had arranged to hide himself in the closet that he might there see
plainly how little she preserved her fidelity to him; and he entreated
her pardon for this madness, and her advice as to how to repair it, and
escape safely from the intricate labyrinth in which his imprudence had
involved him. Camilla was struck with alarm at hearing what Lothario
said, and with much anger, and great good sense, she reproved him and
rebuked his base design and the foolish and mischievous resolution he
had made; but as woman has by nature a nimbler wit than man for good
and for evil, though it is apt to fail when she sets herself
deliberately to reason, Camilla on the spur of the moment thought of a
way to remedy what was to all appearance irremediable, and told
Lothario to contrive that the next day Anselmo should conceal himself
in the place he mentioned, for she hoped from his concealment to obtain
the means of their enjoying themselves for the future without any
apprehension; and without revealing her purpose to him entirely she
charged him to be careful, as soon as Anselmo was concealed, to come to
her when Leonela should call him, and to all she said to him to answer
as he would have answered had he not known that Anselmo was listening.
Lothario pressed her to explain her intention fully, so that he might
with more certainty and precaution take care to do what he saw to be
needful.
“I tell you,” said Camilla, “there is nothing to take care of except to
answer me what I shall ask you;” for she did not wish to explain to him
beforehand what she meant to do, fearing lest he should be unwilling to
follow out an idea which seemed to her such a good one, and should try
or devise some other less practicable plan.
Lothario then retired, and the next day Anselmo, under pretence of
going to his friend’s country house, took his departure, and then
returned to conceal himself, which he was able to do easily, as Camilla
and Leonela took care to give him the opportunity; and so he placed
himself in hiding in the state of agitation that it may be imagined he
would feel who expected to see the vitals of his honour laid bare
before his eyes, and found himself on the point of losing the supreme
blessing he thought he possessed in his beloved Camilla. Having made
sure of Anselmo’s being in his hiding-place, Camilla and Leonela
entered the closet, and the instant she set foot within it Camilla
said, with a deep sigh, “Ah! dear Leonela, would it not be better,
before I do what I am unwilling you should know lest you should seek to
prevent it, that you should take Anselmo’s dagger that I have asked of
you and with it pierce this vile heart of mine? But no; there is no
reason why I should suffer the punishment of another’s fault. I will
first know what it is that the bold licentious eyes of Lothario have
seen in me that could have encouraged him to reveal to me a design so
base as that which he has disclosed regardless of his friend and of my
honour. Go to the window, Leonela, and call him, for no doubt he is in
the street waiting to carry out his vile project; but mine, cruel it
may be, but honourable, shall be carried out first.”
“Ah, señora,” said the crafty Leonela, who knew her part, “what is it
you want to do with this dagger? Can it be that you mean to take your
own life, or Lothario’s? for whichever you mean to do, it will lead to
the loss of your reputation and good name. It is better to dissemble
your wrong and not give this wicked man the chance of entering the
house now and finding us alone; consider, señora, we are weak women and
he is a man, and determined, and as he comes with such a base purpose,
blind and urged by passion, perhaps before you can put yours into
execution he may do what will be worse for you than taking your life.
Ill betide my master, Anselmo, for giving such authority in his house
to this shameless fellow! And supposing you kill him, señora, as I
suspect you mean to do, what shall we do with him when he is dead?”
“What, my friend?” replied Camilla, “we shall leave him for Anselmo to
bury him; for in reason it will be to him a light labour to hide his
own infamy under ground. Summon him, make haste, for all the time I
delay in taking vengeance for my wrong seems to me an offence against
the loyalty I owe my husband.”
Anselmo was listening to all this, and every word that Camilla uttered
made him change his mind; but when he heard that it was resolved to
kill Lothario his first impulse was to come out and show himself to
avert such a disaster; but in his anxiety to see the issue of a
resolution so bold and virtuous he restrained himself, intending to
come forth in time to prevent the deed. At this moment Camilla,
throwing herself upon a bed that was close by, swooned away, and
Leonela began to weep bitterly, exclaiming, “Woe is me! that I should
be fated to have dying here in my arms the flower of virtue upon earth,
the crown of true wives, the pattern of chastity!” with more to the
same effect, so that anyone who heard her would have taken her for the
most tender-hearted and faithful handmaid in the world, and her
mistress for another persecuted Penelope.
Camilla was not long in recovering from her fainting fit and on coming
to herself she said, “Why do you not go, Leonela, to call hither that
friend, the falsest to his friend the sun ever shone upon or night
concealed? Away, run, haste, speed! lest the fire of my wrath burn
itself out with delay, and the righteous vengeance that I hope for melt
away in menaces and maledictions.”
“I am just going to call him, señora,” said Leonela; “but you must
first give me that dagger, lest while I am gone you should by means of
it give cause to all who love you to weep all their lives.”
“Go in peace, dear Leonela, I will not do so,” said Camilla, “for rash
and foolish as I may be, to your mind, in defending my honour, I am not
going to be so much so as that Lucretia who they say killed herself
without having done anything wrong, and without having first killed him
on whom the guilt of her misfortune lay. I shall die, if I am to die;
but it must be after full vengeance upon him who has brought me here to
weep over audacity that no fault of mine gave birth to.”
Leonela required much pressing before she would go to summon Lothario,
but at last she went, and while awaiting her return Camilla continued,
as if speaking to herself, “Good God! would it not have been more
prudent to have repulsed Lothario, as I have done many a time before,
than to allow him, as I am now doing, to think me unchaste and vile,
even for the short time I must wait until I undeceive him? No doubt it
would have been better; but I should not be avenged, nor the honour of
my husband vindicated, should he find so clear and easy an escape from
the strait into which his depravity has led him. Let the traitor pay
with his life for the temerity of his wanton wishes, and let the world
know (if haply it shall ever come to know) that Camilla not only
preserved her allegiance to her husband, but avenged him of the man who
dared to wrong him. Still, I think it might be better to disclose this
to Anselmo. But then I have called his attention to it in the letter I
wrote to him in the country, and, if he did nothing to prevent the
mischief I there pointed out to him, I suppose it was that from pure
goodness of heart and trustfulness he would not and could not believe
that any thought against his honour could harbour in the breast of so
stanch a friend; nor indeed did I myself believe it for many days, nor
should I have ever believed it if his insolence had not gone so far as
to make it manifest by open presents, lavish promises, and ceaseless
tears. But why do I argue thus? Does a bold determination stand in need
of arguments? Surely not. Then traitors avaunt! Vengeance to my aid!
Let the false one come, approach, advance, die, yield up his life, and
then befall what may. Pure I came to him whom Heaven bestowed upon me,
pure I shall leave him; and at the worst bathed in my own chaste blood
and in the foul blood of the falsest friend that friendship ever saw in
the world;” and as she uttered these words she paced the room holding
the unsheathed dagger, with such irregular and disordered steps, and
such gestures that one would have supposed her to have lost her senses,
and taken her for some violent desperado instead of a delicate woman.
Anselmo, concealed behind some tapestries where he had hidden himself,
beheld and was amazed at all, and already felt that what he had seen
and heard was a sufficient answer to even greater suspicions; and he
would have been now well pleased if the proof afforded by Lothario’s
coming were dispensed with, as he feared some sudden mishap; but as he
was on the point of showing himself and coming forth to embrace and
undeceive his wife he paused as he saw Leonela returning, leading
Lothario. Camilla when she saw him, drawing a long line in front of her
on the floor with the dagger, said to him, “Lothario, pay attention to
what I say to thee: if by any chance thou darest to cross this line
thou seest, or even approach it, the instant I see thee attempt it that
same instant will I pierce my bosom with this dagger that I hold in my
hand; and before thou answerest me a word I desire thee to listen to a
few from me, and afterwards thou shalt reply as may please thee. First,
I desire thee to tell me, Lothario, if thou knowest my husband Anselmo,
and in what light thou regardest him; and secondly I desire to know if
thou knowest me too. Answer me this, without embarrassment or
reflecting deeply what thou wilt answer, for they are no riddles I put
to thee.”
Lothario was not so dull but that from the first moment when Camilla
directed him to make Anselmo hide himself he understood what she
intended to do, and therefore he fell in with her idea so readily and
promptly that between them they made the imposture look more true than
truth; so he answered her thus: “I did not think, fair Camilla, that
thou wert calling me to ask questions so remote from the object with
which I come; but if it is to defer the promised reward thou art doing
so, thou mightst have put it off still longer, for the longing for
happiness gives the more distress the nearer comes the hope of gaining
it; but lest thou shouldst say that I do not answer thy questions, I
say that I know thy husband Anselmo, and that we have known each other
from our earliest years; I will not speak of what thou too knowest, of
our friendship, that I may not compel myself to testify against the
wrong that love, the mighty excuse for greater errors, makes me inflict
upon him. Thee I know and hold in the same estimation as he does, for
were it not so I had not for a lesser prize acted in opposition to what
I owe to my station and the holy laws of true friendship, now broken
and violated by me through that powerful enemy, love.”
“If thou dost confess that,” returned Camilla, “mortal enemy of all
that rightly deserves to be loved, with what face dost thou dare to
come before one whom thou knowest to be the mirror wherein he is
reflected on whom thou shouldst look to see how unworthily thou
wrongest him? But, woe is me, I now comprehend what has made thee give
so little heed to what thou owest to thyself; it must have been some
freedom of mine, for I will not call it immodesty, as it did not
proceed from any deliberate intention, but from some heedlessness such
as women are guilty of through inadvertence when they think they have
no occasion for reserve. But tell me, traitor, when did I by word or
sign give a reply to thy prayers that could awaken in thee a shadow of
hope of attaining thy base wishes? When were not thy professions of
love sternly and scornfully rejected and rebuked? When were thy
frequent pledges and still more frequent gifts believed or accepted?
But as I am persuaded that no one can long persevere in the attempt to
win love unsustained by some hope, I am willing to attribute to myself
the blame of thy assurance, for no doubt some thoughtlessness of mine
has all this time fostered thy hopes; and therefore will I punish
myself and inflict upon myself the penalty thy guilt deserves. And that
thou mayest see that being so relentless to myself I cannot possibly be
otherwise to thee, I have summoned thee to be a witness of the
sacrifice I mean to offer to the injured honour of my honoured husband,
wronged by thee with all the assiduity thou wert capable of, and by me
too through want of caution in avoiding every occasion, if I have given
any, of encouraging and sanctioning thy base designs. Once more I say
the suspicion in my mind that some imprudence of mine has engendered
these lawless thoughts in thee, is what causes me most distress and
what I desire most to punish with my own hands, for were any other
instrument of punishment employed my error might become perhaps more
widely known; but before I do so, in my death I mean to inflict death,
and take with me one that will fully satisfy my longing for the revenge
I hope for and have; for I shall see, wheresoever it may be that I go,
the penalty awarded by inflexible, unswerving justice on him who has
placed me in a position so desperate.”
As she uttered these words, with incredible energy and swiftness she
flew upon Lothario with the naked dagger, so manifestly bent on burying
it in his breast that he was almost uncertain whether these
demonstrations were real or feigned, for he was obliged to have
recourse to all his skill and strength to prevent her from striking
him; and with such reality did she act this strange farce and
mystification that, to give it a colour of truth, she determined to
stain it with her own blood; for perceiving, or pretending, that she
could not wound Lothario, she said, “Fate, it seems, will not grant my
just desire complete satisfaction, but it will not be able to keep me
from satisfying it partially at least;” and making an effort to free
the hand with the dagger which Lothario held in his grasp, she released
it, and directing the point to a place where it could not inflict a
deep wound, she plunged it into her left side high up close to the
shoulder, and then allowed herself to fall to the ground as if in a
faint.
Leonela and Lothario stood amazed and astounded at the catastrophe, and
seeing Camilla stretched on the ground and bathed in her blood they
were still uncertain as to the true nature of the act. Lothario,
terrified and breathless, ran in haste to pluck out the dagger; but
when he saw how slight the wound was he was relieved of his fears and
once more admired the subtlety, coolness, and ready wit of the fair
Camilla; and the better to support the part he had to play he began to
utter profuse and doleful lamentations over her body as if she were
dead, invoking maledictions not only on himself but also on him who had
been the means of placing him in such a position: and knowing that his
friend Anselmo heard him he spoke in such a way as to make a listener
feel much more pity for him than for Camilla, even though he supposed
her dead. Leonela took her up in her arms and laid her on the bed,
entreating Lothario to go in quest of someone to attend to her wound in
secret, and at the same time asking his advice and opinion as to what
they should say to Anselmo about his lady’s wound if he should chance
to return before it was healed. He replied they might say what they
liked, for he was not in a state to give advice that would be of any
use; all he could tell her was to try and stanch the blood, as he was
going where he should never more be seen; and with every appearance of
deep grief and sorrow he left the house; but when he found himself
alone, and where there was nobody to see him, he crossed himself
unceasingly, lost in wonder at the adroitness of Camilla and the
consistent acting of Leonela. He reflected how convinced Anselmo would
be that he had a second Portia for a wife, and he looked forward
anxiously to meeting him in order to rejoice together over falsehood
and truth the most craftily veiled that could be imagined.
Leonela, as he told her, stanched her lady’s blood, which was no more
than sufficed to support her deception; and washing the wound with a
little wine she bound it up to the best of her skill, talking all the
time she was tending her in a strain that, even if nothing else had
been said before, would have been enough to assure Anselmo that he had
in Camilla a model of purity. To Leonela’s words Camilla added her own,
calling herself cowardly and wanting in spirit, since she had not
enough at the time she had most need of it to rid herself of the life
she so much loathed. She asked her attendant’s advice as to whether or
not she ought to inform her beloved husband of all that had happened,
but the other bade her say nothing about it, as she would lay upon him
the obligation of taking vengeance on Lothario, which he could not do
but at great risk to himself; and it was the duty of a true wife not to
give her husband provocation to quarrel, but, on the contrary, to
remove it as far as possible from him.
Camilla replied that she believed she was right and that she would
follow her advice, but at any rate it would be well to consider how she
was to explain the wound to Anselmo, for he could not help seeing it;
to which Leonela answered that she did not know how to tell a lie even
in jest.
“How then can I know, my dear?” said Camilla, “for I should not dare to
forge or keep up a falsehood if my life depended on it. If we can think
of no escape from this difficulty, it will be better to tell him the
plain truth than that he should find us out in an untrue story.”
“Be not uneasy, señora,” said Leonela; “between this and to-morrow I
will think of what we must say to him, and perhaps the wound being
where it is it can be hidden from his sight, and Heaven will be pleased
to aid us in a purpose so good and honourable. Compose yourself,
señora, and endeavour to calm your excitement lest my lord find you
agitated; and leave the rest to my care and God’s, who always supports
good intentions.”
Anselmo had with the deepest attention listened to and seen played out
the tragedy of the death of his honour, which the performers acted with
such wonderfully effective truth that it seemed as if they had become
the realities of the parts they played. He longed for night and an
opportunity of escaping from the house to go and see his good friend
Lothario, and with him give vent to his joy over the precious pearl he
had gained in having established his wife’s purity. Both mistress and
maid took care to give him time and opportunity to get away, and taking
advantage of it he made his escape, and at once went in quest of
Lothario, and it would be impossible to describe how he embraced him
when he found him, and the things he said to him in the joy of his
heart, and the praises he bestowed upon Camilla; all which Lothario
listened to without being able to show any pleasure, for he could not
forget how deceived his friend was, and how dishonourably he had
wronged him; and though Anselmo could see that Lothario was not glad,
still he imagined it was only because he had left Camilla wounded and
had been himself the cause of it; and so among other things he told him
not to be distressed about Camilla’s accident, for, as they had agreed
to hide it from him, the wound was evidently trifling; and that being
so, he had no cause for fear, but should henceforward be of good cheer
and rejoice with him, seeing that by his means and adroitness he found
himself raised to the greatest height of happiness that he could have
ventured to hope for, and desired no better pastime than making verses
in praise of Camilla that would preserve her name for all time to come.
Lothario commended his purpose, and promised on his own part to aid him
in raising a monument so glorious.
And so Anselmo was left the most charmingly hoodwinked man there could
be in the world. He himself, persuaded he was conducting the instrument
of his glory, led home by the hand of him who had been the utter
destruction of his good name; whom Camilla received with averted
countenance, though with smiles in her heart. The deception was carried
on for some time, until at the end of a few months Fortune turned her
wheel and the guilt which had been until then so skilfully concealed
was published abroad, and Anselmo paid with his life the penalty of his
ill-advised curiosity.
CHAPTER XXXV.
WHICH TREATS OF THE HEROIC AND PRODIGIOUS BATTLE DON QUIXOTE HAD WITH
CERTAIN SKINS OF RED WINE, AND BRINGS THE NOVEL OF “THE ILL-ADVISED
CURIOSITY” TO A CLOSE
There remained but little more of the novel to be read, when Sancho
Panza burst forth in wild excitement from the garret where Don Quixote
was lying, shouting, “Run, sirs! quick; and help my master, who is in
the thick of the toughest and stiffest battle I ever laid eyes on. By
the living God he has given the giant, the enemy of my lady the
Princess Micomicona, such a slash that he has sliced his head clean off
as if it were a turnip.”
“What are you talking about, brother?” said the curate, pausing as he
was about to read the remainder of the novel. “Are you in your senses,
Sancho? How the devil can it be as you say, when the giant is two
thousand leagues away?”
Here they heard a loud noise in the chamber, and Don Quixote shouting
out, “Stand, thief, brigand, villain; now I have got thee, and thy
scimitar shall not avail thee!” And then it seemed as though he were
slashing vigorously at the wall.
“Don’t stop to listen,” said Sancho, “but go in and part them or help
my master: though there is no need of that now, for no doubt the giant
is dead by this time and giving account to God of his past wicked life;
for I saw the blood flowing on the ground, and the head cut off and
fallen on one side, and it is as big as a large wine-skin.”
“May I die,” said the landlord at this, “if Don Quixote or Don Devil
has not been slashing some of the skins of red wine that stand full at
his bed’s head, and the spilt wine must be what this good fellow takes
for blood;” and so saying he went into the room and the rest after him,
and there they found Don Quixote in the strangest costume in the world.
He was in his shirt, which was not long enough in front to cover his
thighs completely and was six fingers shorter behind; his legs were
very long and lean, covered with hair, and anything but clean; on his
head he had a little greasy red cap that belonged to the host, round
his left arm he had rolled the blanket of the bed, to which Sancho, for
reasons best known to himself, owed a grudge, and in his right hand he
held his unsheathed sword, with which he was slashing about on all
sides, uttering exclamations as if he were actually fighting some
giant: and the best of it was his eyes were not open, for he was fast
asleep, and dreaming that he was doing battle with the giant. For his
imagination was so wrought upon by the adventure he was going to
accomplish, that it made him dream he had already reached the kingdom
of Micomicon, and was engaged in combat with his enemy; and believing
he was laying on the giant, he had given so many sword cuts to the
skins that the whole room was full of wine. On seeing this the landlord
was so enraged that he fell on Don Quixote, and with his clenched fist
began to pummel him in such a way, that if Cardenio and the curate had
not dragged him off, he would have brought the war of the giant to an
end. But in spite of all the poor gentleman never woke until the barber
brought a great pot of cold water from the well and flung it with one
dash all over his body, on which Don Quixote woke up, but not so
completely as to understand what was the matter. Dorothea, seeing how
short and slight his attire was, would not go in to witness the battle
between her champion and her opponent. As for Sancho, he went searching
all over the floor for the head of the giant, and not finding it he
said, “I see now that it’s all enchantment in this house; for the last
time, on this very spot where I am now, I got ever so many thumps
without knowing who gave them to me, or being able to see anybody; and
now this head is not to be seen anywhere about, though I saw it cut off
with my own eyes and the blood running from the body as if from a
fountain.”
“What blood and fountains are you talking about, enemy of God and his
saints?” said the landlord. “Don’t you see, you thief, that the blood
and the fountain are only these skins here that have been stabbed and
the red wine swimming all over the room?—and I wish I saw the soul of
him that stabbed them swimming in hell.”
“I know nothing about that,” said Sancho; “all I know is it will be my
bad luck that through not finding this head my county will melt away
like salt in water;”—for Sancho awake was worse than his master asleep,
so much had his master’s promises addled his wits.
The landlord was beside himself at the coolness of the squire and the
mischievous doings of the master, and swore it should not be like the
last time when they went without paying; and that their privileges of
chivalry should not hold good this time to let one or other of them off
without paying, even to the cost of the plugs that would have to be put
to the damaged wine-skins. The curate was holding Don Quixote’s hands,
who, fancying he had now ended the adventure and was in the presence of
the Princess Micomicona, knelt before the curate and said, “Exalted and
beauteous lady, your highness may live from this day forth fearless of
any harm this base being could do you; and I too from this day forth am
released from the promise I gave you, since by the help of God on high
and by the favour of her by whom I live and breathe, I have fulfilled
it so successfully.”
“Did not I say so?” said Sancho on hearing this. “You see I wasn’t
drunk; there you see my master has already salted the giant; there’s no
doubt about the bulls; my county is all right!”
Who could have helped laughing at the absurdities of the pair, master
and man? And laugh they did, all except the landlord, who cursed
himself; but at length the barber, Cardenio, and the curate contrived
with no small trouble to get Don Quixote on the bed, and he fell asleep
with every appearance of excessive weariness. They left him to sleep,
and came out to the gate of the inn to console Sancho Panza on not
having found the head of the giant; but much more work had they to
appease the landlord, who was furious at the sudden death of his
wine-skins; and said the landlady half scolding, half crying, “At an
evil moment and in an unlucky hour he came into my house, this
knight-errant—would that I had never set eyes on him, for dear he has
cost me; the last time he went off with the overnight score against him
for supper, bed, straw, and barley, for himself and his squire and a
hack and an ass, saying he was a knight adventurer—God send unlucky
adventures to him and all the adventurers in the world—and therefore
not bound to pay anything, for it was so settled by the knight-errantry
tariff: and then, all because of him, came the other gentleman and
carried off my tail, and gives it back more than two cuartillos the
worse, all stripped of its hair, so that it is no use for my husband’s
purpose; and then, for a finishing touch to all, to burst my wine-skins
and spill my wine! I wish I saw his own blood spilt! But let him not
deceive himself, for, by the bones of my father and the shade of my
mother, they shall pay me down every quarto; or my name is not what it
is, and I am not my father’s daughter.” All this and more to the same
effect the landlady delivered with great irritation, and her good maid
Maritornes backed her up, while the daughter held her peace and smiled
from time to time. The curate smoothed matters by promising to make
good all losses to the best of his power, not only as regarded the
wine-skins but also the wine, and above all the depreciation of the
tail which they set such store by. Dorothea comforted Sancho, telling
him that she pledged herself, as soon as it should appear certain that
his master had decapitated the giant, and she found herself peacefully
established in her kingdom, to bestow upon him the best county there
was in it. With this Sancho consoled himself, and assured the princess
she might rely upon it that he had seen the head of the giant, and more
by token it had a beard that reached to the girdle, and that if it was
not to be seen now it was because everything that happened in that
house went by enchantment, as he himself had proved the last time he
had lodged there. Dorothea said she fully believed it, and that he need
not be uneasy, for all would go well and turn out as he wished. All
therefore being appeased, the curate was anxious to go on with the
novel, as he saw there was but little more left to read. Dorothea and
the others begged him to finish it, and he, as he was willing to please
them, and enjoyed reading it himself, continued the tale in these
words:
The result was, that from the confidence Anselmo felt in Camilla’s
virtue, he lived happy and free from anxiety, and Camilla purposely
looked coldly on Lothario, that Anselmo might suppose her feelings
towards him to be the opposite of what they were; and the better to
support the position, Lothario begged to be excused from coming to the
house, as the displeasure with which Camilla regarded his presence was
plain to be seen. But the befooled Anselmo said he would on no account
allow such a thing, and so in a thousand ways he became the author of
his own dishonour, while he believed he was insuring his happiness.
Meanwhile the satisfaction with which Leonela saw herself empowered to
carry on her amour reached such a height that, regardless of everything
else, she followed her inclinations unrestrainedly, feeling confident
that her mistress would screen her, and even show her how to manage it
safely. At last one night Anselmo heard footsteps in Leonela’s room,
and on trying to enter to see who it was, he found that the door was
held against him, which made him all the more determined to open it;
and exerting his strength he forced it open, and entered the room in
time to see a man leaping through the window into the street. He ran
quickly to seize him or discover who he was, but he was unable to
effect either purpose, for Leonela flung her arms round him crying, “Be
calm, señor; do not give way to passion or follow him who has escaped
from this; he belongs to me, and in fact he is my husband.”
Anselmo would not believe it, but blind with rage drew a dagger and
threatened to stab Leonela, bidding her tell the truth or he would kill
her. She, in her fear, not knowing what she was saying, exclaimed, “Do
not kill me, señor, for I can tell you things more important than any
you can imagine.”
“Tell me then at once or thou diest,” said Anselmo.
“It would be impossible for me now,” said Leonela, “I am so agitated:
leave me till to-morrow, and then you shall hear from me what will fill
you with astonishment; but rest assured that he who leaped through the
window is a young man of this city, who has given me his promise to
become my husband.”
Anselmo was appeased with this, and was content to wait the time she
asked of him, for he never expected to hear anything against Camilla,
so satisfied and sure of her virtue was he; and so he quitted the room,
and left Leonela locked in, telling her she should not come out until
she had told him all she had to make known to him. He went at once to
see Camilla, and tell her, as he did, all that had passed between him
and her handmaid, and the promise she had given him to inform him
matters of serious importance.
There is no need of saying whether Camilla was agitated or not, for so
great was her fear and dismay, that, making sure, as she had good
reason to do, that Leonela would tell Anselmo all she knew of her
faithlessness, she had not the courage to wait and see if her
suspicions were confirmed; and that same night, as soon as she thought
that Anselmo was asleep, she packed up the most valuable jewels she had
and some money, and without being observed by anybody escaped from the
house and betook herself to Lothario’s, to whom she related what had
occurred, imploring him to convey her to some place of safety or fly
with her where they might be safe from Anselmo. The state of perplexity
to which Camilla reduced Lothario was such that he was unable to utter
a word in reply, still less to decide upon what he should do. At length
he resolved to conduct her to a convent of which a sister of his was
prioress; Camilla agreed to this, and with the speed which the
circumstances demanded, Lothario took her to the convent and left her
there, and then himself quitted the city without letting anyone know of
his departure.
As soon as daylight came Anselmo, without missing Camilla from his
side, rose eager to learn what Leonela had to tell him, and hastened to
the room where he had locked her in. He opened the door, entered, but
found no Leonela; all he found was some sheets knotted to the window, a
plain proof that she had let herself down from it and escaped. He
returned, uneasy, to tell Camilla, but not finding her in bed or
anywhere in the house he was lost in amazement. He asked the servants
of the house about her, but none of them could give him any
explanation. As he was going in search of Camilla it happened by chance
that he observed her boxes were lying open, and that the greater part
of her jewels were gone; and now he became fully aware of his disgrace,
and that Leonela was not the cause of his misfortune; and, just as he
was, without delaying to dress himself completely, he repaired, sad at
heart and dejected, to his friend Lothario to make known his sorrow to
him; but when he failed to find him and the servants reported that he
had been absent from his house all night and had taken with him all the
money he had, he felt as though he were losing his senses; and to make
all complete on returning to his own house he found it deserted and
empty, not one of all his servants, male or female, remaining in it. He
knew not what to think, or say, or do, and his reason seemed to be
deserting him little by little. He reviewed his position, and saw
himself in a moment left without wife, friend, or servants, abandoned,
he felt, by the heaven above him, and more than all robbed of his
honour, for in Camilla’s disappearance he saw his own ruin. After long
reflection he resolved at last to go to his friend’s village, where he
had been staying when he afforded opportunities for the contrivance of
this complication of misfortune. He locked the doors of his house,
mounted his horse, and with a broken spirit set out on his journey; but
he had hardly gone half-way when, harassed by his reflections, he had
to dismount and tie his horse to a tree, at the foot of which he threw
himself, giving vent to piteous heartrending sighs; and there he
remained till nearly nightfall, when he observed a man approaching on
horseback from the city, of whom, after saluting him, he asked what was
the news in Florence.
The citizen replied, “The strangest that have been heard for many a
day; for it is reported abroad that Lothario, the great friend of the
wealthy Anselmo, who lived at San Giovanni, carried off last night
Camilla, the wife of Anselmo, who also has disappeared. All this has
been told by a maid-servant of Camilla’s, whom the governor found last
night lowering herself by a sheet from the windows of Anselmo’s house.
I know not indeed, precisely, how the affair came to pass; all I know
is that the whole city is wondering at the occurrence, for no one could
have expected a thing of the kind, seeing the great and intimate
friendship that existed between them, so great, they say, that they
were called ‘The Two Friends.’”
“Is it known at all,” said Anselmo, “what road Lothario and Camilla
took?”
“Not in the least,” said the citizen, “though the governor has been
very active in searching for them.”
“God speed you, señor,” said Anselmo.
“God be with you,” said the citizen and went his way.
This disastrous intelligence almost robbed Anselmo not only of his
senses but of his life. He got up as well as he was able and reached
the house of his friend, who as yet knew nothing of his misfortune, but
seeing him come pale, worn, and haggard, perceived that he was
suffering some heavy affliction. Anselmo at once begged to be allowed
to retire to rest, and to be given writing materials. His wish was
complied with and he was left lying down and alone, for he desired
this, and even that the door should be locked. Finding himself alone he
so took to heart the thought of his misfortune that by the signs of
death he felt within him he knew well his life was drawing to a close,
and therefore he resolved to leave behind him a declaration of the
cause of his strange end. He began to write, but before he had put down
all he meant to say, his breath failed him and he yielded up his life,
a victim to the suffering which his ill-advised curiosity had entailed
upon him. The master of the house observing that it was now late and
that Anselmo did not call, determined to go in and ascertain if his
indisposition was increasing, and found him lying on his face, his body
partly in the bed, partly on the writing-table, on which he lay with
the written paper open and the pen still in his hand. Having first
called to him without receiving any answer, his host approached him,
and taking him by the hand, found that it was cold, and saw that he was
dead. Greatly surprised and distressed he summoned the household to
witness the sad fate which had befallen Anselmo; and then he read the
paper, the handwriting of which he recognised as his, and which
contained these words:
“A foolish and ill-advised desire has robbed me of life. If the news of
my death should reach the ears of Camilla, let her know that I forgive
her, for she was not bound to perform miracles, nor ought I to have
required her to perform them; and since I have been the author of my
own dishonour, there is no reason why—”
So far Anselmo had written, and thus it was plain that at this point,
before he could finish what he had to say, his life came to an end. The
next day his friend sent intelligence of his death to his relatives,
who had already ascertained his misfortune, as well as the convent
where Camilla lay almost on the point of accompanying her husband on
that inevitable journey, not on account of the tidings of his death,
but because of those she received of her lover’s departure. Although
she saw herself a widow, it is said she refused either to quit the
convent or take the veil, until, not long afterwards, intelligence
reached her that Lothario had been killed in a battle in which M. de
Lautrec had been recently engaged with the Great Captain Gonzalo
Fernandez de Cordova in the kingdom of Naples, whither her too late
repentant lover had repaired. On learning this Camilla took the veil,
and shortly afterwards died, worn out by grief and melancholy. This was
the end of all three, an end that came of a thoughtless beginning.
“I like this novel,” said the curate; “but I cannot persuade myself of
its truth; and if it has been invented, the author’s invention is
faulty, for it is impossible to imagine any husband so foolish as to
try such a costly experiment as Anselmo’s. If it had been represented
as occurring between a gallant and his mistress it might pass; but
between husband and wife there is something of an impossibility about
it. As to the way in which the story is told, however, I have no fault
to find.”
CHAPTER XXXVI.
WHICH TREATS OF MORE CURIOUS INCIDENTS THAT OCCURRED AT THE INN
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Just at that instant the landlord, who was standing at the gate of the
inn, exclaimed, “Here comes a fine troop of guests; if they stop here
we may say _gaudeamus_.”
“What are they?” said Cardenio.
“Four men,” said the landlord, “riding _à la jineta_, with lances and
bucklers, and all with black veils, and with them there is a woman in
white on a side-saddle, whose face is also veiled, and two attendants
on foot.”
“Are they very near?” said the curate.
“So near,” answered the landlord, “that here they come.”
Hearing this Dorothea covered her face, and Cardenio retreated into Don
Quixote’s room, and they hardly had time to do so before the whole
party the host had described entered the inn, and the four that were on
horseback, who were of highbred appearance and bearing, dismounted, and
came forward to take down the woman who rode on the side-saddle, and
one of them taking her in his arms placed her in a chair that stood at
the entrance of the room where Cardenio had hidden himself. All this
time neither she nor they had removed their veils or spoken a word,
only on sitting down on the chair the woman gave a deep sigh and let
her arms fall like one that was ill and weak. The attendants on foot
then led the horses away to the stable. Observing this the curate,
curious to know who these people in such a dress and preserving such
silence were, went to where the servants were standing and put the
question to one of them, who answered him.
“Faith, sir, I cannot tell you who they are, I only know they seem to
be people of distinction, particularly he who advanced to take the lady
you saw in his arms; and I say so because all the rest show him
respect, and nothing is done except what he directs and orders.”
“And the lady, who is she?” asked the curate.
“That I cannot tell you either,” said the servant, “for I have not seen
her face all the way: I have indeed heard her sigh many times and utter
such groans that she seems to be giving up the ghost every time; but it
is no wonder if we do not know more than we have told you, as my
comrade and I have only been in their company two days, for having met
us on the road they begged and persuaded us to accompany them to
Andalusia, promising to pay us well.”
“And have you heard any of them called by his name?” asked the curate.
“No, indeed,” replied the servant; “they all preserve a marvellous
silence on the road, for not a sound is to be heard among them except
the poor lady’s sighs and sobs, which make us pity her; and we feel
sure that wherever it is she is going, it is against her will, and as
far as one can judge from her dress she is a nun or, what is more
likely, about to become one; and perhaps it is because taking the vows
is not of her own free will, that she is so unhappy as she seems to
be.”
“That may well be,” said the curate, and leaving them he returned to
where Dorothea was, who, hearing the veiled lady sigh, moved by natural
compassion drew near to her and said, “What are you suffering from,
señora? If it be anything that women are accustomed and know how to
relieve, I offer you my services with all my heart.”
To this the unhappy lady made no reply; and though Dorothea repeated
her offers more earnestly she still kept silence, until the gentleman
with the veil, who, the servant said, was obeyed by the rest,
approached and said to Dorothea, “Do not give yourself the trouble,
señora, of making any offers to that woman, for it is her way to give
no thanks for anything that is done for her; and do not try to make her
answer unless you want to hear some lie from her lips.”
“I have never told a lie,” was the immediate reply of her who had been
silent until now; “on the contrary, it is because I am so truthful and
so ignorant of lying devices that I am now in this miserable condition;
and this I call you yourself to witness, for it is my unstained truth
that has made you false and a liar.”
Cardenio heard these words clearly and distinctly, being quite close to
the speaker, for there was only the door of Don Quixote’s room between
them, and the instant he did so, uttering a loud exclamation he cried,
“Good God! what is this I hear? What voice is this that has reached my
ears?” Startled at the voice the lady turned her head; and not seeing
the speaker she stood up and attempted to enter the room; observing
which the gentleman held her back, preventing her from moving a step.
In her agitation and sudden movement the silk with which she had
covered her face fell off and disclosed a countenance of incomparable
and marvellous beauty, but pale and terrified; for she kept turning her
eyes, everywhere she could direct her gaze, with an eagerness that made
her look as if she had lost her senses, and so marked that it excited
the pity of Dorothea and all who beheld her, though they knew not what
caused it. The gentleman grasped her firmly by the shoulders, and being
so fully occupied with holding her back, he was unable to put a hand to
his veil which was falling off, as it did at length entirely, and
Dorothea, who was holding the lady in her arms, raising her eyes saw
that he who likewise held her was her husband, Don Fernando. The
instant she recognised him, with a prolonged plaintive cry drawn from
the depths of her heart, she fell backwards fainting, and but for the
barber being close by to catch her in his arms, she would have fallen
completely to the ground. The curate at once hastened to uncover her
face and throw water on it, and as he did so Don Fernando, for he it
was who held the other in his arms, recognised her and stood as if
death-stricken by the sight; not, however, relaxing his grasp of
Luscinda, for it was she that was struggling to release herself from
his hold, having recognised Cardenio by his voice, as he had recognised
her. Cardenio also heard Dorothea’s cry as she fell fainting, and
imagining that it came from his Luscinda burst forth in terror from the
room, and the first thing he saw was Don Fernando with Luscinda in his
arms. Don Fernando, too, knew Cardenio at once; and all three,
Luscinda, Cardenio, and Dorothea, stood in silent amazement scarcely
knowing what had happened to them.
They gazed at one another without speaking, Dorothea at Don Fernando,
Don Fernando at Cardenio, Cardenio at Luscinda, and Luscinda at
Cardenio. The first to break silence was Luscinda, who thus addressed
Don Fernando: “Leave me, Señor Don Fernando, for the sake of what you
owe to yourself; if no other reason will induce you, leave me to cling
to the wall of which I am the ivy, to the support from which neither
your importunities, nor your threats, nor your promises, nor your gifts
have been able to detach me. See how Heaven, by ways strange and hidden
from our sight, has brought me face to face with my true husband; and
well you know by dear-bought experience that death alone will be able
to efface him from my memory. May this plain declaration, then, lead
you, as you can do nothing else, to turn your love into rage, your
affection into resentment, and so to take my life; for if I yield it up
in the presence of my beloved husband I count it well bestowed; it may
be by my death he will be convinced that I kept my faith to him to the
last moment of life.”
Meanwhile Dorothea had come to herself, and had heard Luscinda’s words,
by means of which she divined who she was; but seeing that Don Fernando
did not yet release her or reply to her, summoning up her resolution as
well as she could she rose and knelt at his feet, and with a flood of
bright and touching tears addressed him thus:
“If, my lord, the beams of that sun that thou holdest eclipsed in thine
arms did not dazzle and rob thine eyes of sight thou wouldst have seen
by this time that she who kneels at thy feet is, so long as thou wilt
have it so, the unhappy and unfortunate Dorothea. I am that lowly
peasant girl whom thou in thy goodness or for thy pleasure wouldst
raise high enough to call herself thine; I am she who in the seclusion
of innocence led a contented life until at the voice of thy
importunity, and thy true and tender passion, as it seemed, she opened
the gates of her modesty and surrendered to thee the keys of her
liberty; a gift received by thee but thanklessly, as is clearly shown
by my forced retreat to the place where thou dost find me, and by thy
appearance under the circumstances in which I see thee. Nevertheless, I
would not have thee suppose that I have come here driven by my shame;
it is only grief and sorrow at seeing myself forgotten by thee that
have led me. It was thy will to make me thine, and thou didst so follow
thy will, that now, even though thou repentest, thou canst not help
being mine. Bethink thee, my lord, the unsurpassable affection I bear
thee may compensate for the beauty and noble birth for which thou
wouldst desert me. Thou canst not be the fair Luscinda’s because thou
art mine, nor can she be thine because she is Cardenio’s; and it will
be easier, remember, to bend thy will to love one who adores thee, than
to lead one to love thee who abhors thee now. Thou didst address
thyself to my simplicity, thou didst lay siege to my virtue, thou wert
not ignorant of my station, well dost thou know how I yielded wholly to
thy will; there is no ground or reason for thee to plead deception, and
if it be so, as it is, and if thou art a Christian as thou art a
gentleman, why dost thou by such subterfuges put off making me as happy
at last as thou didst at first? And if thou wilt not have me for what I
am, thy true and lawful wife, at least take and accept me as thy slave,
for so long as I am thine I will count myself happy and fortunate. Do
not by deserting me let my shame become the talk of the gossips in the
streets; make not the old age of my parents miserable; for the loyal
services they as faithful vassals have ever rendered thine are not
deserving of such a return; and if thou thinkest it will debase thy
blood to mingle it with mine, reflect that there is little or no
nobility in the world that has not travelled the same road, and that in
illustrious lineages it is not the woman’s blood that is of account;
and, moreover, that true nobility consists in virtue, and if thou art
wanting in that, refusing me what in justice thou owest me, then even I
have higher claims to nobility than thine. To make an end, señor, these
are my last words to thee: whether thou wilt, or wilt not, I am thy
wife; witness thy words, which must not and ought not to be false, if
thou dost pride thyself on that for want of which thou scornest me;
witness the pledge which thou didst give me, and witness Heaven, which
thou thyself didst call to witness the promise thou hadst made me; and
if all this fail, thy own conscience will not fail to lift up its
silent voice in the midst of all thy gaiety, and vindicate the truth of
what I say and mar thy highest pleasure and enjoyment.”
All this and more the injured Dorothea delivered with such earnest
feeling and such tears that all present, even those who came with Don
Fernando, were constrained to join her in them. Don Fernando listened
to her without replying, until, ceasing to speak, she gave way to such
sobs and sighs that it must have been a heart of brass that was not
softened by the sight of so great sorrow. Luscinda stood regarding her
with no less compassion for her sufferings than admiration for her
intelligence and beauty, and would have gone to her to say some words
of comfort to her, but was prevented by Don Fernando’s grasp which held
her fast. He, overwhelmed with confusion and astonishment, after
regarding Dorothea for some moments with a fixed gaze, opened his arms,
and, releasing Luscinda, exclaimed:
“Thou hast conquered, fair Dorothea, thou hast conquered, for it is
impossible to have the heart to deny the united force of so many
truths.”
Luscinda in her feebleness was on the point of falling to the ground
when Don Fernando released her, but Cardenio, who stood near, having
retreated behind Don Fernando to escape recognition, casting fear aside
and regardless of what might happen, ran forward to support her, and
said as he clasped her in his arms, “If Heaven in its compassion is
willing to let thee rest at last, mistress of my heart, true, constant,
and fair, nowhere canst thou rest more safely than in these arms that
now receive thee, and received thee before when fortune permitted me to
call thee mine.”
At these words Luscinda looked up at Cardenio, at first beginning to
recognise him by his voice and then satisfying herself by her eyes that
it was he, and hardly knowing what she did, and heedless of all
considerations of decorum, she flung her arms around his neck and
pressing her face close to his, said, “Yes, my dear lord, you are the
true master of this your slave, even though adverse fate interpose
again, and fresh dangers threaten this life that hangs on yours.”
A strange sight was this for Don Fernando and those that stood around,
filled with surprise at an incident so unlooked for. Dorothea fancied
that Don Fernando changed colour and looked as though he meant to take
vengeance on Cardenio, for she observed him put his hand to his sword;
and the instant the idea struck her, with wonderful quickness she
clasped him round the knees, and kissing them and holding him so as to
prevent his moving, she said, while her tears continued to flow, “What
is it thou wouldst do, my only refuge, in this unforeseen event? Thou
hast thy wife at thy feet, and she whom thou wouldst have for thy wife
is in the arms of her husband: reflect whether it will be right for
thee, whether it will be possible for thee to undo what Heaven has
done, or whether it will be becoming in thee to seek to raise her to be
thy mate who in spite of every obstacle, and strong in her truth and
constancy, is before thine eyes, bathing with the tears of love the
face and bosom of her lawful husband. For God’s sake I entreat of thee,
for thine own I implore thee, let not this open manifestation rouse thy
anger; but rather so calm it as to allow these two lovers to live in
peace and quiet without any interference from thee so long as Heaven
permits them; and in so doing thou wilt prove the generosity of thy
lofty noble spirit, and the world shall see that with thee reason has
more influence than passion.”
All the time Dorothea was speaking, Cardenio, though he held Luscinda
in his arms, never took his eyes off Don Fernando, determined, if he
saw him make any hostile movement, to try and defend himself and resist
as best he could all who might assail him, though it should cost him
his life. But now Don Fernando’s friends, as well as the curate and the
barber, who had been present all the while, not forgetting the worthy
Sancho Panza, ran forward and gathered round Don Fernando, entreating
him to have regard for the tears of Dorothea, and not suffer her
reasonable hopes to be disappointed, since, as they firmly believed,
what she said was but the truth; and bidding him observe that it was
not, as it might seem, by accident, but by a special disposition of
Providence that they had all met in a place where no one could have
expected a meeting. And the curate bade him remember that only death
could part Luscinda from Cardenio; that even if some sword were to
separate them they would think their death most happy; and that in a
case that admitted of no remedy his wisest course was, by conquering
and putting a constraint upon himself, to show a generous mind, and of
his own accord suffer these two to enjoy the happiness Heaven had
granted them. He bade him, too, turn his eyes upon the beauty of
Dorothea and he would see that few if any could equal much less excel
her; while to that beauty should be added her modesty and the
surpassing love she bore him. But besides all this, he reminded him
that if he prided himself on being a gentleman and a Christian, he
could not do otherwise than keep his plighted word; and that in doing
so he would obey God and meet the approval of all sensible people, who
know and recognised it to be the privilege of beauty, even in one of
humble birth, provided virtue accompany it, to be able to raise itself
to the level of any rank, without any slur upon him who places it upon
an equality with himself; and furthermore that when the potent sway of
passion asserts itself, so long as there be no mixture of sin in it, he
is not to be blamed who gives way to it.
To be brief, they added to these such other forcible arguments that Don
Fernando’s manly heart, being after all nourished by noble blood, was
touched, and yielded to the truth which, even had he wished it, he
could not gainsay; and he showed his submission, and acceptance of the
good advice that had been offered to him, by stooping down and
embracing Dorothea, saying to her, “Rise, dear lady, it is not right
that what I hold in my heart should be kneeling at my feet; and if
until now I have shown no sign of what I own, it may have been by
Heaven’s decree in order that, seeing the constancy with which you love
me, I may learn to value you as you deserve. What I entreat of you is
that you reproach me not with my transgression and grievous
wrong-doing; for the same cause and force that drove me to make you
mine impelled me to struggle against being yours; and to prove this,
turn and look at the eyes of the now happy Luscinda, and you will see
in them an excuse for all my errors: and as she has found and gained
the object of her desires, and I have found in you what satisfies all
my wishes, may she live in peace and contentment as many happy years
with her Cardenio, as on my knees I pray Heaven to allow me to live
with my Dorothea;” and with these words he once more embraced her and
pressed his face to hers with so much tenderness that he had to take
great heed to keep his tears from completing the proof of his love and
repentance in the sight of all. Not so Luscinda, and Cardenio, and
almost all the others, for they shed so many tears, some in their own
happiness, some at that of the others, that one would have supposed a
heavy calamity had fallen upon them all. Even Sancho Panza was weeping;
though afterwards he said he only wept because he saw that Dorothea was
not as he fancied the queen Micomicona, of whom he expected such great
favours. Their wonder as well as their weeping lasted some time, and
then Cardenio and Luscinda went and fell on their knees before Don
Fernando, returning him thanks for the favour he had rendered them in
language so grateful that he knew not how to answer them, and raising
them up embraced them with every mark of affection and courtesy.
He then asked Dorothea how she had managed to reach a place so far
removed from her own home, and she in a few fitting words told all that
she had previously related to Cardenio, with which Don Fernando and his
companions were so delighted that they wished the story had been
longer; so charmingly did Dorothea describe her misadventures. When she
had finished Don Fernando recounted what had befallen him in the city
after he had found in Luscinda’s bosom the paper in which she declared
that she was Cardenio’s wife, and never could be his. He said he meant
to kill her, and would have done so had he not been prevented by her
parents, and that he quitted the house full of rage and shame, and
resolved to avenge himself when a more convenient opportunity should
offer. The next day he learned that Luscinda had disappeared from her
father’s house, and that no one could tell whither she had gone.
Finally, at the end of some months he ascertained that she was in a
convent and meant to remain there all the rest of her life, if she were
not to share it with Cardenio; and as soon as he had learned this,
taking these three gentlemen as his companions, he arrived at the place
where she was, but avoided speaking to her, fearing that if it were
known he was there stricter precautions would be taken in the convent;
and watching a time when the porter’s lodge was open he left two to
guard the gate, and he and the other entered the convent in quest of
Luscinda, whom they found in the cloisters in conversation with one of
the nuns, and carrying her off without giving her time to resist, they
reached a place with her where they provided themselves with what they
required for taking her away; all which they were able to do in
complete safety, as the convent was in the country at a considerable
distance from the city. He added that when Luscinda found herself in
his power she lost all consciousness, and after returning to herself
did nothing but weep and sigh without speaking a word; and thus in
silence and tears they reached that inn, which for him was reaching
heaven where all the mischances of earth are over and at an end.
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CHAPTER XXXVII.
IN WHICH IS CONTINUED THE STORY OF THE FAMOUS PRINCESS MICOMICONA, WITH
OTHER DROLL ADVENTURES
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To all this Sancho listened with no little sorrow at heart to see how
his hopes of dignity were fading away and vanishing in smoke, and how
the fair Princess Micomicona had turned into Dorothea, and the giant
into Don Fernando, while his master was sleeping tranquilly, totally
unconscious of all that had come to pass. Dorothea was unable to
persuade herself that her present happiness was not all a dream;
Cardenio was in a similar state of mind, and Luscinda’s thoughts ran in
the same direction. Don Fernando gave thanks to Heaven for the favour
shown to him and for having been rescued from the intricate labyrinth
in which he had been brought so near the destruction of his good name
and of his soul; and in short everybody in the inn was full of
contentment and satisfaction at the happy issue of such a complicated
and hopeless business. The curate as a sensible man made sound
reflections upon the whole affair, and congratulated each upon his good
fortune; but the one that was in the highest spirits and good humour
was the landlady, because of the promise Cardenio and the curate had
given her to pay for all the losses and damage she had sustained
through Don Quixote’s means. Sancho, as has been already said, was the
only one who was distressed, unhappy, and dejected; and so with a long
face he went in to his master, who had just awoke, and said to him:
“Sir Rueful Countenance, your worship may as well sleep on as much as
you like, without troubling yourself about killing any giant or
restoring her kingdom to the princess; for that is all over and settled
now.”
“I should think it was,” replied Don Quixote, “for I have had the most
prodigious and stupendous battle with the giant that I ever remember
having had all the days of my life; and with one back-stroke—swish!—I
brought his head tumbling to the ground, and so much blood gushed forth
from him that it ran in rivulets over the earth like water.”
“Like red wine, your worship had better say,” replied Sancho; “for I
would have you know, if you don’t know it, that the dead giant is a
hacked wine-skin, and the blood four-and-twenty gallons of red wine
that it had in its belly, and the cut-off head is the bitch that bore
me; and the devil take it all.”
“What art thou talking about, fool?” said Don Quixote; “art thou in thy
senses?”
“Let your worship get up,” said Sancho, “and you will see the nice
business you have made of it, and what we have to pay; and you will see
the queen turned into a private lady called Dorothea, and other things
that will astonish you, if you understand them.”
“I shall not be surprised at anything of the kind,” returned Don
Quixote; “for if thou dost remember the last time we were here I told
thee that everything that happened here was a matter of enchantment,
and it would be no wonder if it were the same now.”
“I could believe all that,” replied Sancho, “if my blanketing was the
same sort of thing also; only it wasn’t, but real and genuine; for I
saw the landlord, who is here to-day, holding one end of the blanket
and jerking me up to the skies very neatly and smartly, and with as
much laughter as strength; and when it comes to be a case of knowing
people, I hold for my part, simple and sinner as I am, that there is no
enchantment about it at all, but a great deal of bruising and bad
luck.”
“Well, well, God will give a remedy,” said Don Quixote; “hand me my
clothes and let me go out, for I want to see these transformations and
things thou speakest of.”
Sancho fetched him his clothes; and while he was dressing, the curate
gave Don Fernando and the others present an account of Don Quixote’s
madness and of the stratagem they had made use of to withdraw him from
that Pena Pobre where he fancied himself stationed because of his
lady’s scorn. He described to them also nearly all the adventures that
Sancho had mentioned, at which they marvelled and laughed not a little,
thinking it, as all did, the strangest form of madness a crazy
intellect could be capable of. But now, the curate said, that the lady
Dorothea’s good fortune prevented her from proceeding with their
purpose, it would be necessary to devise or discover some other way of
getting him home.
Cardenio proposed to carry out the scheme they had begun, and suggested
that Luscinda would act and support Dorothea’s part sufficiently well.
“No,” said Don Fernando, “that must not be, for I want Dorothea to
follow out this idea of hers; and if the worthy gentleman’s village is
not very far off, I shall be happy if I can do anything for his
relief.”
“It is not more than two days’ journey from this,” said the curate.
“Even if it were more,” said Don Fernando, “I would gladly travel so
far for the sake of doing so good a work.”
At this moment Don Quixote came out in full panoply, with Mambrino’s
helmet, all dinted as it was, on his head, his buckler on his arm, and
leaning on his staff or pike. The strange figure he presented filled
Don Fernando and the rest with amazement as they contemplated his lean
yellow face half a league long, his armour of all sorts, and the
solemnity of his deportment. They stood silent waiting to see what he
would say, and he, fixing his eyes on the fair Dorothea, addressed her
with great gravity and composure:
“I am informed, fair lady, by my squire here that your greatness has
been annihilated and your being abolished, since, from a queen and lady
of high degree as you used to be, you have been turned into a private
maiden. If this has been done by the command of the magician king your
father, through fear that I should not afford you the aid you need and
are entitled to, I may tell you he did not know and does not know half
the mass, and was little versed in the annals of chivalry; for, if he
had read and gone through them as attentively and deliberately as I
have, he would have found at every turn that knights of less renown
than mine have accomplished things more difficult: it is no great
matter to kill a whelp of a giant, however arrogant he may be; for it
is not many hours since I myself was engaged with one, and—I will not
speak of it, that they may not say I am lying; time, however, that
reveals all, will tell the tale when we least expect it.”
“You were engaged with a couple of wine-skins, and not a giant,” said
the landlord at this; but Don Fernando told him to hold his tongue and
on no account interrupt Don Quixote, who continued, “I say in
conclusion, high and disinherited lady, that if your father has brought
about this metamorphosis in your person for the reason I have
mentioned, you ought not to attach any importance to it; for there is
no peril on earth through which my sword will not force a way, and with
it, before many days are over, I will bring your enemy’s head to the
ground and place on yours the crown of your kingdom.”
Don Quixote said no more, and waited for the reply of the princess, who
aware of Don Fernando’s determination to carry on the deception until
Don Quixote had been conveyed to his home, with great ease of manner
and gravity made answer, “Whoever told you, valiant Knight of the
Rueful Countenance, that I had undergone any change or transformation
did not tell you the truth, for I am the same as I was yesterday. It is
true that certain strokes of good fortune, that have given me more than
I could have hoped for, have made some alteration in me; but I have not
therefore ceased to be what I was before, or to entertain the same
desire I have had all through of availing myself of the might of your
valiant and invincible arm. And so, señor, let your goodness reinstate
the father that begot me in your good opinion, and be assured that he
was a wise and prudent man, since by his craft he found out such a sure
and easy way of remedying my misfortune; for I believe, señor, that had
it not been for you I should never have lit upon the good fortune I now
possess; and in this I am saying what is perfectly true; as most of
these gentlemen who are present can fully testify. All that remains is
to set out on our journey to-morrow, for to-day we could not make much
way; and for the rest of the happy result I am looking forward to, I
trust to God and the valour of your heart.”
So said the sprightly Dorothea, and on hearing her Don Quixote turned
to Sancho, and said to him, with an angry air, “I declare now, little
Sancho, thou art the greatest little villain in Spain. Say, thief and
vagabond, hast thou not just now told me that this princess had been
turned into a maiden called Dorothea, and that the head which I am
persuaded I cut off from a giant was the bitch that bore thee, and
other nonsense that put me in the greatest perplexity I have ever been
in all my life? I vow” (and here he looked to heaven and ground his
teeth) “I have a mind to play the mischief with thee, in a way that
will teach sense for the future to all lying squires of knights-errant
in the world.”
“Let your worship be calm, señor,” returned Sancho, “for it may well be
that I have been mistaken as to the change of the lady princess
Micomicona; but as to the giant’s head, or at least as to the piercing
of the wine-skins, and the blood being red wine, I make no mistake, as
sure as there is a God; because the wounded skins are there at the head
of your worship’s bed, and the wine has made a lake of the room; if not
you will see when the eggs come to be fried; I mean when his worship
the landlord calls for all the damages: for the rest, I am heartily
glad that her ladyship the queen is as she was, for it concerns me as
much as anyone.”
“I tell thee again, Sancho, thou art a fool,” said Don Quixote;
“forgive me, and that will do.”
“That will do,” said Don Fernando; “let us say no more about it; and as
her ladyship the princess proposes to set out to-morrow because it is
too late to-day, so be it, and we will pass the night in pleasant
conversation, and to-morrow we will all accompany Señor Don Quixote;
for we wish to witness the valiant and unparalleled achievements he is
about to perform in the course of this mighty enterprise which he has
undertaken.”
“It is I who shall wait upon and accompany you,” said Don Quixote; “and
I am much gratified by the favour that is bestowed upon me, and the
good opinion entertained of me, which I shall strive to justify or it
shall cost me my life, or even more, if it can possibly cost me more.”
Many were the compliments and expressions of politeness that passed
between Don Quixote and Don Fernando; but they were brought to an end
by a traveller who at this moment entered the inn, and who seemed from
his attire to be a Christian lately come from the country of the Moors,
for he was dressed in a short-skirted coat of blue cloth with
half-sleeves and without a collar; his breeches were also of blue
cloth, and his cap of the same colour, and he wore yellow buskins and
had a Moorish cutlass slung from a baldric across his breast. Behind
him, mounted upon an ass, there came a woman dressed in Moorish
fashion, with her face veiled and a scarf on her head, and wearing a
little brocaded cap, and a mantle that covered her from her shoulders
to her feet. The man was of a robust and well-proportioned frame, in
age a little over forty, rather swarthy in complexion, with long
moustaches and a full beard, and, in short, his appearance was such
that if he had been well dressed he would have been taken for a person
of quality and good birth. On entering he asked for a room, and when
they told him there was none in the inn he seemed distressed, and
approaching her who by her dress seemed to be a Moor, he took her down
from the saddle in his arms. Luscinda, Dorothea, the landlady, her
daughter and Maritornes, attracted by the strange, and to them entirely
new costume, gathered round her; and Dorothea, who was always kindly,
courteous, and quick-witted, perceiving that both she and the man who
had brought her were annoyed at not finding a room, said to her, “Do
not be put out, señora, by the discomfort and want of luxuries here,
for it is the way of road-side inns to be without them; still, if you
will be pleased to share our lodging with us (pointing to Luscinda)
perhaps you will have found worse accommodation in the course of your
journey.”
To this the veiled lady made no reply; all she did was to rise from her
seat, crossing her hands upon her bosom, bowing her head and bending
her body as a sign that she returned thanks. From her silence they
concluded that she must be a Moor and unable to speak a Christian
tongue.
At this moment the captive came up, having been until now otherwise
engaged, and seeing that they all stood round his companion and that
she made no reply to what they addressed to her, he said, “Ladies, this
damsel hardly understands my language and can speak none but that of
her own country, for which reason she does not and cannot answer what
has been asked of her.”
“Nothing has been asked of her,” returned Luscinda; “she has only been
offered our company for this evening and a share of the quarters we
occupy, where she shall be made as comfortable as the circumstances
allow, with the good-will we are bound to show all strangers that stand
in need of it, especially if it be a woman to whom the service is
rendered.”
“On her part and my own, señora,” replied the captive, “I kiss your
hands, and I esteem highly, as I ought, the favour you have offered,
which, on such an occasion and coming from persons of your appearance,
is, it is plain to see, a very great one.”
“Tell me, señor,” said Dorothea, “is this lady a Christian or a Moor?
for her dress and her silence lead us to imagine that she is what we
could wish she was not.”
“In dress and outwardly,” said he, “she is a Moor, but at heart she is
a thoroughly good Christian, for she has the greatest desire to become
one.”
“Then she has not been baptised?” returned Luscinda.
“There has been no opportunity for that,” replied the captive, “since
she left Algiers, her native country and home; and up to the present
she has not found herself in any such imminent danger of death as to
make it necessary to baptise her before she has been instructed in all
the ceremonies our holy mother Church ordains; but, please God, ere
long she shall be baptised with the solemnity befitting her which is
higher than her dress or mine indicates.”
By these words he excited a desire in all who heard him, to know who
the Moorish lady and the captive were, but no one liked to ask just
then, seeing that it was a fitter moment for helping them to rest
themselves than for questioning them about their lives. Dorothea took
the Moorish lady by the hand and leading her to a seat beside herself,
requested her to remove her veil. She looked at the captive as if to
ask him what they meant and what she was to do. He said to her in
Arabic that they asked her to take off her veil, and thereupon she
removed it and disclosed a countenance so lovely, that to Dorothea she
seemed more beautiful than Luscinda, and to Luscinda more beautiful
than Dorothea, and all the bystanders felt that if any beauty could
compare with theirs it was the Moorish lady’s, and there were even
those who were inclined to give it somewhat the preference. And as it
is the privilege and charm of beauty to win the heart and secure
good-will, all forthwith became eager to show kindness and attention to
the lovely Moor.
Don Fernando asked the captive what her name was, and he replied that
it was Lela Zoraida; but the instant she heard him, she guessed what
the Christian had asked, and said hastily, with some displeasure and
energy, “No, not Zoraida; Maria, Maria!” giving them to understand that
she was called “Maria” and not “Zoraida.” These words, and the touching
earnestness with which she uttered them, drew more than one tear from
some of the listeners, particularly the women, who are by nature
tender-hearted and compassionate. Luscinda embraced her affectionately,
saying, “Yes, yes, Maria, Maria,” to which the Moor replied, “Yes, yes,
Maria; Zoraida macange,” which means “not Zoraida.”
Night was now approaching, and by the orders of those who accompanied
Don Fernando the landlord had taken care and pains to prepare for them
the best supper that was in his power. The hour therefore having
arrived they all took their seats at a long table like a refectory one,
for round or square table there was none in the inn, and the seat of
honour at the head of it, though he was for refusing it, they assigned
to Don Quixote, who desired the lady Micomicona to place herself by his
side, as he was her protector. Luscinda and Zoraida took their places
next her, opposite to them were Don Fernando and Cardenio, and next the
captive and the other gentlemen, and by the side of the ladies, the
curate and the barber. And so they supped in high enjoyment, which was
increased when they observed Don Quixote leave off eating, and, moved
by an impulse like that which made him deliver himself at such length
when he supped with the goatherds, begin to address them:
“Verily, gentlemen, if we reflect upon it, great and marvellous are the
things they see, who make profession of the order of knight-errantry.
Say, what being is there in this world, who entering the gate of this
castle at this moment, and seeing us as we are here, would suppose or
imagine us to be what we are? Who would say that this lady who is
beside me was the great queen that we all know her to be, or that I am
that Knight of the Rueful Countenance, trumpeted far and wide by the
mouth of Fame? Now, there can be no doubt that this art and calling
surpasses all those that mankind has invented, and is the more
deserving of being held in honour in proportion as it is the more
exposed to peril. Away with those who assert that letters have the
preeminence over arms; I will tell them, whosoever they may be, that
they know not what they say. For the reason which such persons commonly
assign, and upon which they chiefly rest, is, that the labours of the
mind are greater than those of the body, and that arms give employment
to the body alone; as if the calling were a porter’s trade, for which
nothing more is required than sturdy strength; or as if, in what we who
profess them call arms, there were not included acts of vigour for the
execution of which high intelligence is requisite; or as if the soul of
the warrior, when he has an army, or the defence of a city under his
care, did not exert itself as much by mind as by body. Nay; see whether
by bodily strength it be possible to learn or divine the intentions of
the enemy, his plans, stratagems, or obstacles, or to ward off
impending mischief; for all these are the work of the mind, and in them
the body has no share whatever. Since, therefore, arms have need of the
mind, as much as letters, let us see now which of the two minds, that
of the man of letters or that of the warrior, has most to do; and this
will be seen by the end and goal that each seeks to attain; for that
purpose is the more estimable which has for its aim the nobler object.
The end and goal of letters—I am not speaking now of divine letters,
the aim of which is to raise and direct the soul to Heaven; for with an
end so infinite no other can be compared—I speak of human letters, the
end of which is to establish distributive justice, give to every man
that which is his, and see and take care that good laws are observed:
an end undoubtedly noble, lofty, and deserving of high praise, but not
such as should be given to that sought by arms, which have for their
end and object peace, the greatest boon that men can desire in this
life. The first good news the world and mankind received was that which
the angels announced on the night that was our day, when they sang in
the air, ‘Glory to God in the highest, and peace on earth to men of
good-will;’ and the salutation which the great Master of heaven and
earth taught his disciples and chosen followers when they entered any
house, was to say, ‘Peace be on this house;’ and many other times he
said to them, ‘My peace I give unto you, my peace I leave you, peace be
with you;’ a jewel and a precious gift given and left by such a hand: a
jewel without which there can be no happiness either on earth or in
heaven. This peace is the true end of war; and war is only another name
for arms. This, then, being admitted, that the end of war is peace, and
that so far it has the advantage of the end of letters, let us turn to
the bodily labours of the man of letters, and those of him who follows
the profession of arms, and see which are the greater.”
Don Quixote delivered his discourse in such a manner and in such
correct language, that for the time being he made it impossible for any
of his hearers to consider him a madman; on the contrary, as they were
mostly gentlemen, to whom arms are an appurtenance by birth, they
listened to him with great pleasure as he continued: “Here, then, I say
is what the student has to undergo; first of all poverty: not that all
are poor, but to put the case as strongly as possible: and when I have
said that he endures poverty, I think nothing more need be said about
his hard fortune, for he who is poor has no share of the good things of
life. This poverty he suffers from in various ways, hunger, or cold, or
nakedness, or all together; but for all that it is not so extreme but
that he gets something to eat, though it may be at somewhat
unseasonable hours and from the leavings of the rich; for the greatest
misery of the student is what they themselves call ‘going out for
soup,’ and there is always some neighbour’s brazier or hearth for them,
which, if it does not warm, at least tempers the cold to them, and
lastly, they sleep comfortably at night under a roof. I will not go
into other particulars, as for example want of shirts, and no
superabundance of shoes, thin and threadbare garments, and gorging
themselves to surfeit in their voracity when good luck has treated them
to a banquet of some sort. By this road that I have described, rough
and hard, stumbling here, falling there, getting up again to fall
again, they reach the rank they desire, and that once attained, we have
seen many who have passed these Syrtes and Scyllas and Charybdises, as
if borne flying on the wings of favouring fortune; we have seen them, I
say, ruling and governing the world from a chair, their hunger turned
into satiety, their cold into comfort, their nakedness into fine
raiment, their sleep on a mat into repose in holland and damask, the
justly earned reward of their virtue; but, contrasted and compared with
what the warrior undergoes, all they have undergone falls far short of
it, as I am now about to show.”
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CHAPTER XXXVIII.
WHICH TREATS OF THE CURIOUS DISCOURSE DON QUIXOTE DELIVERED ON ARMS AND
LETTERS
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Continuing his discourse Don Quixote said: “As we began in the
student’s case with poverty and its accompaniments, let us see now if
the soldier is richer, and we shall find that in poverty itself there
is no one poorer; for he is dependent on his miserable pay, which comes
late or never, or else on what he can plunder, seriously imperilling
his life and conscience; and sometimes his nakedness will be so great
that a slashed doublet serves him for uniform and shirt, and in the
depth of winter he has to defend himself against the inclemency of the
weather in the open field with nothing better than the breath of his
mouth, which I need not say, coming from an empty place, must come out
cold, contrary to the laws of nature. To be sure he looks forward to
the approach of night to make up for all these discomforts on the bed
that awaits him, which, unless by some fault of his, never sins by
being over narrow, for he can easily measure out on the ground as he
likes, and roll himself about in it to his heart’s content without any
fear of the sheets slipping away from him. Then, after all this,
suppose the day and hour for taking his degree in his calling to have
come; suppose the day of battle to have arrived, when they invest him
with the doctor’s cap made of lint, to mend some bullet-hole, perhaps,
that has gone through his temples, or left him with a crippled arm or
leg. Or if this does not happen, and merciful Heaven watches over him
and keeps him safe and sound, it may be he will be in the same poverty
he was in before, and he must go through more engagements and more
battles, and come victorious out of all before he betters himself; but
miracles of that sort are seldom seen. For tell me, sirs, if you have
ever reflected upon it, by how much do those who have gained by war
fall short of the number of those who have perished in it? No doubt you
will reply that there can be no comparison, that the dead cannot be
numbered, while the living who have been rewarded may be summed up with
three figures. All which is the reverse in the case of men of letters;
for by skirts, to say nothing of sleeves, they all find means of
support; so that though the soldier has more to endure, his reward is
much less. But against all this it may be urged that it is easier to
reward two thousand soldiers, for the former may be remunerated by
giving them places, which must perforce be conferred upon men of their
calling, while the latter can only be recompensed out of the very
property of the master they serve; but this impossibility only
strengthens my argument.
“Putting this, however, aside, for it is a puzzling question for which
it is difficult to find a solution, let us return to the superiority of
arms over letters, a matter still undecided, so many are the arguments
put forward on each side; for besides those I have mentioned, letters
say that without them arms cannot maintain themselves, for war, too,
has its laws and is governed by them, and laws belong to the domain of
letters and men of letters. To this arms make answer that without them
laws cannot be maintained, for by arms states are defended, kingdoms
preserved, cities protected, roads made safe, seas cleared of pirates;
and, in short, if it were not for them, states, kingdoms, monarchies,
cities, ways by sea and land would be exposed to the violence and
confusion which war brings with it, so long as it lasts and is free to
make use of its privileges and powers. And then it is plain that
whatever costs most is valued and deserves to be valued most. To attain
to eminence in letters costs a man time, watching, hunger, nakedness,
headaches, indigestions, and other things of the sort, some of which I
have already referred to. But for a man to come in the ordinary course
of things to be a good soldier costs him all the student suffers, and
in an incomparably higher degree, for at every step he runs the risk of
losing his life. For what dread of want or poverty that can reach or
harass the student can compare with what the soldier feels, who finds
himself beleaguered in some stronghold mounting guard in some ravelin
or cavalier, knows that the enemy is pushing a mine towards the post
where he is stationed, and cannot under any circumstances retire or fly
from the imminent danger that threatens him? All he can do is to inform
his captain of what is going on so that he may try to remedy it by a
counter-mine, and then stand his ground in fear and expectation of the
moment when he will fly up to the clouds without wings and descend into
the deep against his will. And if this seems a trifling risk, let us
see whether it is equalled or surpassed by the encounter of two galleys
stem to stem, in the midst of the open sea, locked and entangled one
with the other, when the soldier has no more standing room than two
feet of the plank of the spur; and yet, though he sees before him
threatening him as many ministers of death as there are cannon of the
foe pointed at him, not a lance length from his body, and sees too that
with the first heedless step he will go down to visit the profundities
of Neptune’s bosom, still with dauntless heart, urged on by honour that
nerves him, he makes himself a target for all that musketry, and
struggles to cross that narrow path to the enemy’s ship. And what is
still more marvellous, no sooner has one gone down into the depths he
will never rise from till the end of the world, than another takes his
place; and if he too falls into the sea that waits for him like an
enemy, another and another will succeed him without a moment’s pause
between their deaths: courage and daring the greatest that all the
chances of war can show. Happy the blest ages that knew not the dread
fury of those devilish engines of artillery, whose inventor I am
persuaded is in hell receiving the reward of his diabolical invention,
by which he made it easy for a base and cowardly arm to take the life
of a gallant gentleman; and that, when he knows not how or whence, in
the height of the ardour and enthusiasm that fire and animate brave
hearts, there should come some random bullet, discharged perhaps by one
who fled in terror at the flash when he fired off his accursed machine,
which in an instant puts an end to the projects and cuts off the life
of one who deserved to live for ages to come. And thus when I reflect
on this, I am almost tempted to say that in my heart I repent of having
adopted this profession of knight-errant in so detestable an age as we
live in now; for though no peril can make me fear, still it gives me
some uneasiness to think that powder and lead may rob me of the
opportunity of making myself famous and renowned throughout the known
earth by the might of my arm and the edge of my sword. But Heaven’s
will be done; if I succeed in my attempt I shall be all the more
honoured, as I have faced greater dangers than the knights-errant of
yore exposed themselves to.”
All this lengthy discourse Don Quixote delivered while the others
supped, forgetting to raise a morsel to his lips, though Sancho more
than once told him to eat his supper, as he would have time enough
afterwards to say all he wanted. It excited fresh pity in those who had
heard him to see a man of apparently sound sense, and with rational
views on every subject he discussed, so hopelessly wanting in all, when
his wretched unlucky chivalry was in question. The curate told him he
was quite right in all he had said in favour of arms, and that he
himself, though a man of letters and a graduate, was of the same
opinion.
They finished their supper, the cloth was removed, and while the
hostess, her daughter, and Maritornes were getting Don Quixote of La
Mancha’s garret ready, in which it was arranged that the women were to
be quartered by themselves for the night, Don Fernando begged the
captive to tell them the story of his life, for it could not fail to be
strange and interesting, to judge by the hints he had let fall on his
arrival in company with Zoraida. To this the captive replied that he
would very willingly yield to his request, only he feared his tale
would not give them as much pleasure as he wished; nevertheless, not to
be wanting in compliance, he would tell it. The curate and the others
thanked him and added their entreaties, and he finding himself so
pressed said there was no occasion to ask, where a command had such
weight, and added, “If your worships will give me your attention you
will hear a true story which, perhaps, fictitious ones constructed with
ingenious and studied art cannot come up to.” These words made them
settle themselves in their places and preserve a deep silence, and he
seeing them waiting on his words in mute expectation, began thus in a
pleasant quiet voice.
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CHAPTER XXXIX.
WHEREIN THE CAPTIVE RELATES HIS LIFE AND ADVENTURES
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My family had its origin in a village in the mountains of Leon, and
nature had been kinder and more generous to it than fortune; though in
the general poverty of those communities my father passed for being
even a rich man; and he would have been so in reality had he been as
clever in preserving his property as he was in spending it. This
tendency of his to be liberal and profuse he had acquired from having
been a soldier in his youth, for the soldier’s life is a school in
which the niggard becomes free-handed and the free-handed prodigal; and
if any soldiers are to be found who are misers, they are monsters of
rare occurrence. My father went beyond liberality and bordered on
prodigality, a disposition by no means advantageous to a married man
who has children to succeed to his name and position. My father had
three, all sons, and all of sufficient age to make choice of a
profession. Finding, then, that he was unable to resist his propensity,
he resolved to divest himself of the instrument and cause of his
prodigality and lavishness, to divest himself of wealth, without which
Alexander himself would have seemed parsimonious; and so calling us all
three aside one day into a room, he addressed us in words somewhat to
the following effect:
“My sons, to assure you that I love you, no more need be known or said
than that you are my sons; and to encourage a suspicion that I do not
love you, no more is needed than the knowledge that I have no
self-control as far as preservation of your patrimony is concerned;
therefore, that you may for the future feel sure that I love you like a
father, and have no wish to ruin you like a stepfather, I propose to do
with you what I have for some time back meditated, and after mature
deliberation decided upon. You are now of an age to choose your line of
life or at least make choice of a calling that will bring you honour
and profit when you are older; and what I have resolved to do is to
divide my property into four parts; three I will give to you, to each
his portion without making any difference, and the other I will retain
to live upon and support myself for whatever remainder of life Heaven
may be pleased to grant me. But I wish each of you on taking possession
of the share that falls to him to follow one of the paths I shall
indicate. In this Spain of ours there is a proverb, to my mind very
true—as they all are, being short aphorisms drawn from long practical
experience—and the one I refer to says, ‘The church, or the sea, or the
king’s house;’ as much as to say, in plainer language, whoever wants to
flourish and become rich, let him follow the church, or go to sea,
adopting commerce as his calling, or go into the king’s service in his
household, for they say, ‘Better a king’s crumb than a lord’s favour.’
I say so because it is my will and pleasure that one of you should
follow letters, another trade, and the third serve the king in the
wars, for it is a difficult matter to gain admission to his service in
his household, and if war does not bring much wealth it confers great
distinction and fame. Eight days hence I will give you your full shares
in money, without defrauding you of a farthing, as you will see in the
end. Now tell me if you are willing to follow out my idea and advice as
I have laid it before you.”
Having called upon me as the eldest to answer, I, after urging him not
to strip himself of his property but to spend it all as he pleased, for
we were young men able to gain our living, consented to comply with his
wishes, and said that mine were to follow the profession of arms and
thereby serve God and my king. My second brother having made the same
proposal, decided upon going to the Indies, embarking the portion that
fell to him in trade. The youngest, and in my opinion the wisest, said
he would rather follow the church, or go to complete his studies at
Salamanca. As soon as we had come to an understanding, and made choice
of our professions, my father embraced us all, and in the short time he
mentioned carried into effect all he had promised; and when he had
given to each his share, which as well as I remember was three thousand
ducats apiece in cash (for an uncle of ours bought the estate and paid
for it down, not to let it go out of the family), we all three on the
same day took leave of our good father; and at the same time, as it
seemed to me inhuman to leave my father with such scanty means in his
old age, I induced him to take two of my three thousand ducats, as the
remainder would be enough to provide me with all a soldier needed. My
two brothers, moved by my example, gave him each a thousand ducats, so
that there was left for my father four thousand ducats in money,
besides three thousand, the value of the portion that fell to him which
he preferred to retain in land instead of selling it. Finally, as I
said, we took leave of him, and of our uncle whom I have mentioned, not
without sorrow and tears on both sides, they charging us to let them
know whenever an opportunity offered how we fared, whether well or ill.
We promised to do so, and when he had embraced us and given us his
blessing, one set out for Salamanca, the other for Seville, and I for
Alicante, where I had heard there was a Genoese vessel taking in a
cargo of wool for Genoa.
It is now some twenty-two years since I left my father’s house, and all
that time, though I have written several letters, I have had no news
whatever of him or of my brothers; my own adventures during that period
I will now relate briefly. I embarked at Alicante, reached Genoa after
a prosperous voyage, and proceeded thence to Milan, where I provided
myself with arms and a few soldier’s accoutrements; thence it was my
intention to go and take service in Piedmont, but as I was already on
the road to Alessandria della Paglia, I learned that the great Duke of
Alva was on his way to Flanders. I changed my plans, joined him, served
under him in the campaigns he made, was present at the deaths of the
Counts Egmont and Horn, and was promoted to be ensign under a famous
captain of Guadalajara, Diego de Urbina by name. Some time after my
arrival in Flanders news came of the league that his Holiness Pope Pius
V. of happy memory, had made with Venice and Spain against the common
enemy, the Turk, who had just then with his fleet taken the famous
island of Cyprus, which belonged to the Venetians, a loss deplorable
and disastrous. It was known as a fact that the Most Serene Don John of
Austria, natural brother of our good king Don Philip, was coming as
commander-in-chief of the allied forces, and rumours were abroad of the
vast warlike preparations which were being made, all which stirred my
heart and filled me with a longing to take part in the campaign which
was expected; and though I had reason to believe, and almost certain
promises, that on the first opportunity that presented itself I should
be promoted to be captain, I preferred to leave all and betake myself,
as I did, to Italy; and it was my good fortune that Don John had just
arrived at Genoa, and was going on to Naples to join the Venetian
fleet, as he afterwards did at Messina. I may say, in short, that I
took part in that glorious expedition, promoted by this time to be a
captain of infantry, to which honourable charge my good luck rather
than my merits raised me; and that day—so fortunate for Christendom,
because then all the nations of the earth were disabused of the error
under which they lay in imagining the Turks to be invincible on sea—on
that day, I say, on which the Ottoman pride and arrogance were broken,
among all that were there made happy (for the Christians who died that
day were happier than those who remained alive and victorious) I alone
was miserable; for, instead of some naval crown that I might have
expected had it been in Roman times, on the night that followed that
famous day I found myself with fetters on my feet and manacles on my
hands.
It happened in this way: El Uchali, the king of Algiers, a daring and
successful corsair, having attacked and taken the leading Maltese
galley (only three knights being left alive in it, and they badly
wounded), the chief galley of John Andrea, on board of which I and my
company were placed, came to its relief, and doing as was bound to do
in such a case, I leaped on board the enemy’s galley, which, sheering
off from that which had attacked it, prevented my men from following
me, and so I found myself alone in the midst of my enemies, who were in
such numbers that I was unable to resist; in short I was taken, covered
with wounds; El Uchali, as you know, sirs, made his escape with his
entire squadron, and I was left a prisoner in his power, the only sad
being among so many filled with joy, and the only captive among so many
free; for there were fifteen thousand Christians, all at the oar in the
Turkish fleet, that regained their longed-for liberty that day.
They carried me to Constantinople, where the Grand Turk, Selim, made my
master general at sea for having done his duty in the battle and
carried off as evidence of his bravery the standard of the Order of
Malta. The following year, which was the year seventy-two, I found
myself at Navarino rowing in the leading galley with the three
lanterns. There I saw and observed how the opportunity of capturing the
whole Turkish fleet in harbour was lost; for all the marines and
janizzaries that belonged to it made sure that they were about to be
attacked inside the very harbour, and had their kits and pasamaques, or
shoes, ready to flee at once on shore without waiting to be assailed,
in so great fear did they stand of our fleet. But Heaven ordered it
otherwise, not for any fault or neglect of the general who commanded on
our side, but for the sins of Christendom, and because it was God’s
will and pleasure that we should always have instruments of punishment
to chastise us. As it was, El Uchali took refuge at Modon, which is an
island near Navarino, and landing forces fortified the mouth of the
harbour and waited quietly until Don John retired. On this expedition
was taken the galley called the Prize, whose captain was a son of the
famous corsair Barbarossa. It was taken by the chief Neapolitan galley
called the She-wolf, commanded by that thunderbolt of war, that father
of his men, that successful and unconquered captain Don Álvaro de
Bazan, Marquis of Santa Cruz; and I cannot help telling you what took
place at the capture of the Prize.
The son of Barbarossa was so cruel, and treated his slaves so badly,
that, when those who were at the oars saw that the She-wolf galley was
bearing down upon them and gaining upon them, they all at once dropped
their oars and seized their captain who stood on the stage at the end
of the gangway shouting to them to row lustily; and passing him on from
bench to bench, from the poop to the prow, they so bit him that before
he had got much past the mast his soul had already got to hell; so
great, as I said, was the cruelty with which he treated them, and the
hatred with which they hated him.
We returned to Constantinople, and the following year, seventy-three,
it became known that Don John had seized Tunis and taken the kingdom
from the Turks, and placed Muley Hamet in possession, putting an end to
the hopes which Muley Hamida, the cruelest and bravest Moor in the
world, entertained of returning to reign there. The Grand Turk took the
loss greatly to heart, and with the cunning which all his race possess,
he made peace with the Venetians (who were much more eager for it than
he was), and the following year, seventy-four, he attacked the Goletta
and the fort which Don John had left half built near Tunis. While all
these events were occurring, I was labouring at the oar without any
hope of freedom; at least I had no hope of obtaining it by ransom, for
I was firmly resolved not to write to my father telling him of my
misfortunes. At length the Goletta fell, and the fort fell, before
which places there were seventy-five thousand regular Turkish soldiers,
and more than four hundred thousand Moors and Arabs from all parts of
Africa, and in the train of all this great host such munitions and
engines of war, and so many pioneers that with their hands they might
have covered the Goletta and the fort with handfuls of earth. The first
to fall was the Goletta, until then reckoned impregnable, and it fell,
not by any fault of its defenders, who did all that they could and
should have done, but because experiment proved how easily
entrenchments could be made in the desert sand there; for water used to
be found at two palms depth, while the Turks found none at two yards;
and so by means of a quantity of sandbags they raised their works so
high that they commanded the walls of the fort, sweeping them as if
from a cavalier, so that no one was able to make a stand or maintain
the defence.
It was a common opinion that our men should not have shut themselves up
in the Goletta, but should have waited in the open at the
landing-place; but those who say so talk at random and with little
knowledge of such matters; for if in the Goletta and in the fort there
were barely seven thousand soldiers, how could such a small number,
however resolute, sally out and hold their own against numbers like
those of the enemy? And how is it possible to help losing a stronghold
that is not relieved, above all when surrounded by a host of determined
enemies in their own country? But many thought, and I thought so too,
that it was special favour and mercy which Heaven showed to Spain in
permitting the destruction of that source and hiding place of mischief,
that devourer, sponge, and moth of countless money, fruitlessly wasted
there to no other purpose save preserving the memory of its capture by
the invincible Charles V.; as if to make that eternal, as it is and
will be, these stones were needed to support it. The fort also fell;
but the Turks had to win it inch by inch, for the soldiers who defended
it fought so gallantly and stoutly that the number of the enemy killed
in twenty-two general assaults exceeded twenty-five thousand. Of three
hundred that remained alive not one was taken unwounded, a clear and
manifest proof of their gallantry and resolution, and how sturdily they
had defended themselves and held their post. A small fort or tower
which was in the middle of the lagoon under the command of Don Juan
Zanoguera, a Valencian gentleman and a famous soldier, capitulated upon
terms. They took prisoner Don Pedro Puertocarrero, commandant of the
Goletta, who had done all in his power to defend his fortress, and took
the loss of it so much to heart that he died of grief on the way to
Constantinople, where they were carrying him a prisoner. They also took
the commandant of the fort, Gabrio Cerbellon by name, a Milanese
gentleman, a great engineer and a very brave soldier. In these two
fortresses perished many persons of note, among whom was Pagano Doria,
knight of the Order of St. John, a man of generous disposition, as was
shown by his extreme liberality to his brother, the famous John Andrea
Doria; and what made his death the more sad was that he was slain by
some Arabs to whom, seeing that the fort was now lost, he entrusted
himself, and who offered to conduct him in the disguise of a Moor to
Tabarca, a small fort or station on the coast held by the Genoese
employed in the coral fishery. These Arabs cut off his head and carried
it to the commander of the Turkish fleet, who proved on them the truth
of our Castilian proverb, that “though the treason may please, the
traitor is hated;” for they say he ordered those who brought him the
present to be hanged for not having brought him alive.
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Among the Christians who were taken in the fort was one named Don Pedro
de Aguilar, a native of some place, I know not what, in Andalusia, who
had been ensign in the fort, a soldier of great repute and rare
intelligence, who had in particular a special gift for what they call
poetry. I say so because his fate brought him to my galley and to my
bench, and made him a slave to the same master; and before we left the
port this gentleman composed two sonnets by way of epitaphs, one on the
Goletta and the other on the fort; indeed, I may as well repeat them,
for I have them by heart, and I think they will be liked rather than
disliked.
The instant the captive mentioned the name of Don Pedro de Aguilar, Don
Fernando looked at his companions and they all three smiled; and when
he came to speak of the sonnets one of them said, “Before your worship
proceeds any further I entreat you to tell me what became of that Don
Pedro de Aguilar you have spoken of.”
“All I know is,” replied the captive, “that after having been in
Constantinople two years, he escaped in the disguise of an Arnaut, in
company with a Greek spy; but whether he regained his liberty or not I
cannot tell, though I fancy he did, because a year afterwards I saw the
Greek at Constantinople, though I was unable to ask him what the result
of the journey was.”
“Well then, you are right,” returned the gentleman, “for that Don Pedro
is my brother, and he is now in our village in good health, rich,
married, and with three children.”
“Thanks be to God for all the mercies he has shown him,” said the
captive; “for to my mind there is no happiness on earth to compare with
recovering lost liberty.”
“And what is more,” said the gentleman, “I know the sonnets my brother
made.”
“Then let your worship repeat them,” said the captive, “for you will
recite them better than I can.”
“With all my heart,” said the gentleman; “that on the Goletta runs
thus.”
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CHAPTER XL.
IN WHICH THE STORY OF THE CAPTIVE IS CONTINUED.
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SONNET
“Blest souls, that, from this mortal husk set free,
In guerdon of brave deeds beatified,
Above this lowly orb of ours abide
Made heirs of heaven and immortality,
With noble rage and ardour glowing ye
Your strength, while strength was yours, in battle plied,
And with your own blood and the foeman’s dyed
The sandy soil and the encircling sea.
It was the ebbing life-blood first that failed
The weary arms; the stout hearts never quailed.
Though vanquished, yet ye earned the victor’s crown:
Though mourned, yet still triumphant was your fall
For there ye won, between the sword and wall,
In Heaven glory and on earth renown.”
“That is it exactly, according to my recollection,” said the captive.
“Well then, that on the fort,” said the gentleman, “if my memory serves
me, goes thus:
SONNET
“Up from this wasted soil, this shattered shell,
Whose walls and towers here in ruin lie,
Three thousand soldier souls took wing on high,
In the bright mansions of the blest to dwell.
The onslaught of the foeman to repel
By might of arm all vainly did they try,
And when at length ’twas left them but to die,
Wearied and few the last defenders fell.
And this same arid soil hath ever been
A haunt of countless mournful memories,
As well in our day as in days of yore.
But never yet to Heaven it sent, I ween,
From its hard bosom purer souls than these,
Or braver bodies on its surface bore.”
The sonnets were not disliked, and the captive was rejoiced at the
tidings they gave him of his comrade, and continuing his tale, he went
on to say:
The Goletta and the fort being thus in their hands, the Turks gave
orders to dismantle the Goletta—for the fort was reduced to such a
state that there was nothing left to level—and to do the work more
quickly and easily they mined it in three places; but nowhere were they
able to blow up the part which seemed to be the least strong, that is
to say, the old walls, while all that remained standing of the new
fortifications that the Fratin had made came to the ground with the
greatest ease. Finally the fleet returned victorious and triumphant to
Constantinople, and a few months later died my master, El Uchali,
otherwise Uchali Fartax, which means in Turkish “the scabby renegade;”
for that he was; it is the practice with the Turks to name people from
some defect or virtue they may possess; the reason being that there are
among them only four surnames belonging to families tracing their
descent from the Ottoman house, and the others, as I have said, take
their names and surnames either from bodily blemishes or moral
qualities. This “scabby one” rowed at the oar as a slave of the Grand
Signor’s for fourteen years, and when over thirty-four years of age, in
resentment at having been struck by a Turk while at the oar, turned
renegade and renounced his faith in order to be able to revenge
himself; and such was his valour that, without owing his advancement to
the base ways and means by which most favourites of the Grand Signor
rise to power, he came to be king of Algiers, and afterwards
general-on-sea, which is the third place of trust in the realm. He was
a Calabrian by birth, and a worthy man morally, and he treated his
slaves with great humanity. He had three thousand of them, and after
his death they were divided, as he directed by his will, between the
Grand Signor (who is heir of all who die and shares with the children
of the deceased) and his renegades. I fell to the lot of a Venetian
renegade who, when a cabin boy on board a ship, had been taken by
Uchali and was so much beloved by him that he became one of his most
favoured youths. He came to be the most cruel renegade I ever saw: his
name was Hassan Aga, and he grew very rich and became king of Algiers.
With him I went there from Constantinople, rather glad to be so near
Spain, not that I intended to write to anyone about my unhappy lot, but
to try if fortune would be kinder to me in Algiers than in
Constantinople, where I had attempted in a thousand ways to escape
without ever finding a favourable time or chance; but in Algiers I
resolved to seek for other means of effecting the purpose I cherished
so dearly; for the hope of obtaining my liberty never deserted me; and
when in my plots and schemes and attempts the result did not answer my
expectations, without giving way to despair I immediately began to look
out for or conjure up some new hope to support me, however faint or
feeble it might be.
In this way I lived on immured in a building or prison called by the
Turks a baño in which they confine the Christian captives, as well
those that are the king’s as those belonging to private individuals,
and also what they call those of the Almacen, which is as much as to
say the slaves of the municipality, who serve the city in the public
works and other employments; but captives of this kind recover their
liberty with great difficulty, for, as they are public property and
have no particular master, there is no one with whom to treat for their
ransom, even though they may have the means. To these baños, as I have
said, some private individuals of the town are in the habit of bringing
their captives, especially when they are to be ransomed; because there
they can keep them in safety and comfort until their ransom arrives.
The king’s captives also, that are on ransom, do not go out to work
with the rest of the crew, unless when their ransom is delayed; for
then, to make them write for it more pressingly, they compel them to
work and go for wood, which is no light labour.
I, however, was one of those on ransom, for when it was discovered that
I was a captain, although I declared my scanty means and want of
fortune, nothing could dissuade them from including me among the
gentlemen and those waiting to be ransomed. They put a chain on me,
more as a mark of this than to keep me safe, and so I passed my life in
that baño with several other gentlemen and persons of quality marked
out as held to ransom; but though at times, or rather almost always, we
suffered from hunger and scanty clothing, nothing distressed us so much
as hearing and seeing at every turn the unexampled and unheard-of
cruelties my master inflicted upon the Christians. Every day he hanged
a man, impaled one, cut off the ears of another; and all with so little
provocation, or so entirely without any, that the Turks acknowledged he
did it merely for the sake of doing it, and because he was by nature
murderously disposed towards the whole human race. The only one that
fared at all well with him was a Spanish soldier, something de Saavedra
by name, to whom he never gave a blow himself, or ordered a blow to be
given, or addressed a hard word, although he had done things that will
dwell in the memory of the people there for many a year, and all to
recover his liberty; and for the least of the many things he did we all
dreaded that he would be impaled, and he himself was in fear of it more
than once; and only that time does not allow, I could tell you now
something of what that soldier did, that would interest and astonish
you much more than the narration of my own tale.
To go on with my story; the courtyard of our prison was overlooked by
the windows of the house belonging to a wealthy Moor of high position;
and these, as is usual in Moorish houses, were rather loopholes than
windows, and besides were covered with thick and close lattice-work. It
so happened, then, that as I was one day on the terrace of our prison
with three other comrades, trying, to pass away the time, how far we
could leap with our chains, we being alone, for all the other
Christians had gone out to work, I chanced to raise my eyes, and from
one of these little closed windows I saw a reed appear with a cloth
attached to the end of it, and it kept waving to and fro, and moving as
if making signs to us to come and take it. We watched it, and one of
those who were with me went and stood under the reed to see whether
they would let it drop, or what they would do, but as he did so the
reed was raised and moved from side to side, as if they meant to say
“no” by a shake of the head. The Christian came back, and it was again
lowered, making the same movements as before. Another of my comrades
went, and with him the same happened as with the first, and then the
third went forward, but with the same result as the first and second.
Seeing this I did not like not to try my luck, and as soon as I came
under the reed it was dropped and fell inside the baño at my feet. I
hastened to untie the cloth, in which I perceived a knot, and in this
were ten cianis, which are coins of base gold, current among the Moors,
and each worth ten reals of our money.
It is needless to say I rejoiced over this godsend, and my joy was not
less than my wonder as I strove to imagine how this good fortune could
have come to us, but to me specially; for the evident unwillingness to
drop the reed for any but me showed that it was for me the favour was
intended. I took my welcome money, broke the reed, and returned to the
terrace, and looking up at the window, I saw a very white hand put out
that opened and shut very quickly. From this we gathered or fancied
that it must be some woman living in that house that had done us this
kindness, and to show that we were grateful for it, we made salaams
after the fashion of the Moors, bowing the head, bending the body, and
crossing the arms on the breast. Shortly afterwards at the same window
a small cross made of reeds was put out and immediately withdrawn. This
sign led us to believe that some Christian woman was a captive in the
house, and that it was she who had been so good to us; but the
whiteness of the hand and the bracelets we had perceived made us
dismiss that idea, though we thought it might be one of the Christian
renegades whom their masters very often take as lawful wives, and
gladly, for they prefer them to the women of their own nation. In all
our conjectures we were wide of the truth; so from that time forward
our sole occupation was watching and gazing at the window where the
cross had appeared to us, as if it were our pole-star; but at least
fifteen days passed without our seeing either it or the hand, or any
other sign and though meanwhile we endeavoured with the utmost pains to
ascertain who it was that lived in the house, and whether there were
any Christian renegade in it, nobody could ever tell us anything more
than that he who lived there was a rich Moor of high position, Hadji
Morato by name, formerly alcaide of La Pata, an office of high dignity
among them. But when we least thought it was going to rain any more
cianis from that quarter, we saw the reed suddenly appear with another
cloth tied in a larger knot attached to it, and this at a time when, as
on the former occasion, the baño was deserted and unoccupied.
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We made trial as before, each of the same three going forward before I
did; but the reed was delivered to none but me, and on my approach it
was let drop. I untied the knot and I found forty Spanish gold crowns
with a paper written in Arabic, and at the end of the writing there was
a large cross drawn. I kissed the cross, took the crowns and returned
to the terrace, and we all made our salaams; again the hand appeared, I
made signs that I would read the paper, and then the window was closed.
We were all puzzled, though filled with joy at what had taken place;
and as none of us understood Arabic, great was our curiosity to know
what the paper contained, and still greater the difficulty of finding
someone to read it. At last I resolved to confide in a renegade, a
native of Murcia, who professed a very great friendship for me, and had
given pledges that bound him to keep any secret I might entrust to him;
for it is the custom with some renegades, when they intend to return to
Christian territory, to carry about them certificates from captives of
mark testifying, in whatever form they can, that such and such a
renegade is a worthy man who has always shown kindness to Christians,
and is anxious to escape on the first opportunity that may present
itself. Some obtain these testimonials with good intentions, others put
them to a cunning use; for when they go to pillage on Christian
territory, if they chance to be cast away, or taken prisoners, they
produce their certificates and say that from these papers may be seen
the object they came for, which was to remain on Christian ground, and
that it was to this end they joined the Turks in their foray. In this
way they escape the consequences of the first outburst and make their
peace with the Church before it does them any harm, and then when they
have the chance they return to Barbary to become what they were before.
Others, however, there are who procure these papers and make use of
them honestly, and remain on Christian soil. This friend of mine, then,
was one of these renegades that I have described; he had certificates
from all our comrades, in which we testified in his favour as strongly
as we could; and if the Moors had found the papers they would have
burned him alive.
I knew that he understood Arabic very well, and could not only speak
but also write it; but before I disclosed the whole matter to him, I
asked him to read for me this paper which I had found by accident in a
hole in my cell. He opened it and remained some time examining it and
muttering to himself as he translated it. I asked him if he understood
it, and he told me he did perfectly well, and that if I wished him to
tell me its meaning word for word, I must give him pen and ink that he
might do it more satisfactorily. We at once gave him what he required,
and he set about translating it bit by bit, and when he had done he
said:
“All that is here in Spanish is what the Moorish paper contains, and
you must bear in mind that when it says ‘Lela Marien’ it means ‘Our
Lady the Virgin Mary.’”
We read the paper and it ran thus:
“When I was a child my father had a slave who taught me to pray the
Christian prayer in my own language, and told me many things about Lela
Marien. The Christian died, and I know that she did not go to the fire,
but to Allah, because since then I have seen her twice, and she told me
to go to the land of the Christians to see Lela Marien, who had great
love for me. I know not how to go. I have seen many Christians, but
except thyself none has seemed to me to be a gentleman. I am young and
beautiful, and have plenty of money to take with me. See if thou canst
contrive how we may go, and if thou wilt thou shalt be my husband
there, and if thou wilt not it will not distress me, for Lela Marien
will find me someone to marry me. I myself have written this: have a
care to whom thou givest it to read: trust no Moor, for they are all
perfidious. I am greatly troubled on this account, for I would not have
thee confide in anyone, because if my father knew it he would at once
fling me down a well and cover me with stones. I will put a thread to
the reed; tie the answer to it, and if thou hast no one to write for
thee in Arabic, tell it to me by signs, for Lela Marien will make me
understand thee. She and Allah and this cross, which I often kiss as
the captive bade me, protect thee.”
Judge, sirs, whether we had reason for surprise and joy at the words of
this paper; and both one and the other were so great, that the renegade
perceived that the paper had not been found by chance, but had been in
reality addressed to someone of us, and he begged us, if what he
suspected were the truth, to trust him and tell him all, for he would
risk his life for our freedom; and so saying he took out from his
breast a metal crucifix, and with many tears swore by the God the image
represented, in whom, sinful and wicked as he was, he truly and
faithfully believed, to be loyal to us and keep secret whatever we
chose to reveal to him; for he thought and almost foresaw that by means
of her who had written that paper, he and all of us would obtain our
liberty, and he himself obtain the object he so much desired, his
restoration to the bosom of the Holy Mother Church, from which by his
own sin and ignorance he was now severed like a corrupt limb. The
renegade said this with so many tears and such signs of repentance,
that with one consent we all agreed to tell him the whole truth of the
matter, and so we gave him a full account of all, without hiding
anything from him. We pointed out to him the window at which the reed
appeared, and he by that means took note of the house, and resolved to
ascertain with particular care who lived in it. We agreed also that it
would be advisable to answer the Moorish lady’s letter, and the
renegade without a moment’s delay took down the words I dictated to
him, which were exactly what I shall tell you, for nothing of
importance that took place in this affair has escaped my memory, or
ever will while life lasts. This, then, was the answer returned to the
Moorish lady:
“The true Allah protect thee, Lady, and that blessed Marien who is the
true mother of God, and who has put it into thy heart to go to the land
of the Christians, because she loves thee. Entreat her that she be
pleased to show thee how thou canst execute the command she gives thee,
for she will, such is her goodness. On my own part, and on that of all
these Christians who are with me, I promise to do all that we can for
thee, even to death. Fail not to write to me and inform me what thou
dost mean to do, and I will always answer thee; for the great Allah has
given us a Christian captive who can speak and write thy language well,
as thou mayest see by this paper; without fear, therefore, thou canst
inform us of all thou wouldst. As to what thou sayest, that if thou
dost reach the land of the Christians thou wilt be my wife, I give thee
my promise upon it as a good Christian; and know that the Christians
keep their promises better than the Moors. Allah and Marien his mother
watch over thee, my Lady.”
The paper being written and folded I waited two days until the baño was
empty as before, and immediately repaired to the usual walk on the
terrace to see if there were any sign of the reed, which was not long
in making its appearance. As soon as I saw it, although I could not
distinguish who put it out, I showed the paper as a sign to attach the
thread, but it was already fixed to the reed, and to it I tied the
paper; and shortly afterwards our star once more made its appearance
with the white flag of peace, the little bundle. It was dropped, and I
picked it up, and found in the cloth, in gold and silver coins of all
sorts, more than fifty crowns, which fifty times more strengthened our
joy and doubled our hope of gaining our liberty. That very night our
renegade returned and said he had learned that the Moor we had been
told of lived in that house, that his name was Hadji Morato, that he
was enormously rich, that he had one only daughter the heiress of all
his wealth, and that it was the general opinion throughout the city
that she was the most beautiful woman in Barbary, and that several of
the viceroys who came there had sought her for a wife, but that she had
been always unwilling to marry; and he had learned, moreover, that she
had a Christian slave who was now dead; all which agreed with the
contents of the paper. We immediately took counsel with the renegade as
to what means would have to be adopted in order to carry off the
Moorish lady and bring us all to Christian territory; and in the end it
was agreed that for the present we should wait for a second
communication from Zoraida (for that was the name of her who now
desires to be called Maria), because we saw clearly that she and no one
else could find a way out of all these difficulties. When we had
decided upon this the renegade told us not to be uneasy, for he would
lose his life or restore us to liberty. For four days the baño was
filled with people, for which reason the reed delayed its appearance
for four days, but at the end of that time, when the baño was, as it
generally was, empty, it appeared with the cloth so bulky that it
promised a happy birth. Reed and cloth came down to me, and I found
another paper and a hundred crowns in gold, without any other coin. The
renegade was present, and in our cell we gave him the paper to read,
which was to this effect:
“I cannot think of a plan, señor, for our going to Spain, nor has Lela
Marien shown me one, though I have asked her. All that can be done is
for me to give you plenty of money in gold from this window. With it
ransom yourself and your friends, and let one of you go to the land of
the Christians, and there buy a vessel and come back for the others;
and he will find me in my father’s garden, which is at the Babazon gate
near the seashore, where I shall be all this summer with my father and
my servants. You can carry me away from there by night without any
danger, and bring me to the vessel. And remember thou art to be my
husband, else I will pray to Marien to punish thee. If thou canst not
trust anyone to go for the vessel, ransom thyself and do thou go, for I
know thou wilt return more surely than any other, as thou art a
gentleman and a Christian. Endeavour to make thyself acquainted with
the garden; and when I see thee walking yonder I shall know that the
baño is empty and I will give thee abundance of money. Allah protect
thee, señor.”
These were the words and contents of the second paper, and on hearing
them, each declared himself willing to be the ransomed one, and
promised to go and return with scrupulous good faith; and I too made
the same offer; but to all this the renegade objected, saying that he
would not on any account consent to one being set free before all went
together, as experience had taught him how ill those who have been set
free keep promises which they made in captivity; for captives of
distinction frequently had recourse to this plan, paying the ransom of
one who was to go to Valencia or Majorca with money to enable him to
arm a bark and return for the others who had ransomed him, but who
never came back; for recovered liberty and the dread of losing it again
efface from the memory all the obligations in the world. And to prove
the truth of what he said, he told us briefly what had happened to a
certain Christian gentleman almost at that very time, the strangest
case that had ever occurred even there, where astonishing and
marvellous things are happening every instant. In short, he ended by
saying that what could and ought to be done was to give the money
intended for the ransom of one of us Christians to him, so that he
might with it buy a vessel there in Algiers under the pretence of
becoming a merchant and trader at Tetuan and along the coast; and when
master of the vessel, it would be easy for him to hit on some way of
getting us all out of the baño and putting us on board; especially if
the Moorish lady gave, as she said, money enough to ransom all, because
once free it would be the easiest thing in the world for us to embark
even in open day; but the greatest difficulty was that the Moors do not
allow any renegade to buy or own any craft, unless it be a large vessel
for going on roving expeditions, because they are afraid that anyone
who buys a small vessel, especially if he be a Spaniard, only wants it
for the purpose of escaping to Christian territory. This however he
could get over by arranging with a Tagarin Moor to go shares with him
in the purchase of the vessel, and in the profit on the cargo; and
under cover of this he could become master of the vessel, in which case
he looked upon all the rest as accomplished. But though to me and my
comrades it had seemed a better plan to send to Majorca for the vessel,
as the Moorish lady suggested, we did not dare to oppose him, fearing
that if we did not do as he said he would denounce us, and place us in
danger of losing all our lives if he were to disclose our dealings with
Zoraida, for whose life we would have all given our own. We therefore
resolved to put ourselves in the hands of God and in the renegade’s;
and at the same time an answer was given to Zoraida, telling her that
we would do all she recommended, for she had given as good advice as if
Lela Marien had delivered it, and that it depended on her alone whether
we were to defer the business or put it in execution at once. I renewed
my promise to be her husband; and thus the next day that the baño
chanced to be empty she at different times gave us by means of the reed
and cloth two thousand gold crowns and a paper in which she said that
the next Juma, that is to say Friday, she was going to her father’s
garden, but that before she went she would give us more money; and if
it were not enough we were to let her know, as she would give us as
much as we asked, for her father had so much he would not miss it, and
besides she kept all the keys.
We at once gave the renegade five hundred crowns to buy the vessel, and
with eight hundred I ransomed myself, giving the money to a Valencian
merchant who happened to be in Algiers at the time, and who had me
released on his word, pledging it that on the arrival of the first ship
from Valencia he would pay my ransom; for if he had given the money at
once it would have made the king suspect that my ransom money had been
for a long time in Algiers, and that the merchant had for his own
advantage kept it secret. In fact my master was so difficult to deal
with that I dared not on any account pay down the money at once. The
Thursday before the Friday on which the fair Zoraida was to go to the
garden she gave us a thousand crowns more, and warned us of her
departure, begging me, if I were ransomed, to find out her father’s
garden at once, and by all means to seek an opportunity of going there
to see her. I answered in a few words that I would do so, and that she
must remember to commend us to Lela Marien with all the prayers the
captive had taught her. This having been done, steps were taken to
ransom our three comrades, so as to enable them to quit the baño, and
lest, seeing me ransomed and themselves not, though the money was
forthcoming, they should make a disturbance about it and the devil
should prompt them to do something that might injure Zoraida; for
though their position might be sufficient to relieve me from this
apprehension, nevertheless I was unwilling to run any risk in the
matter; and so I had them ransomed in the same way as I was, handing
over all the money to the merchant so that he might with safety and
confidence give security; without, however, confiding our arrangement
and secret to him, which might have been dangerous.
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CHAPTER XLI.
IN WHICH THE CAPTIVE STILL CONTINUES HIS ADVENTURES
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Before fifteen days were over our renegade had already purchased an
excellent vessel with room for more than thirty persons; and to make
the transaction safe and lend a colour to it, he thought it well to
make, as he did, a voyage to a place called Shershel, twenty leagues
from Algiers on the Oran side, where there is an extensive trade in
dried figs. Two or three times he made this voyage in company with the
Tagarin already mentioned. The Moors of Aragon are called Tagarins in
Barbary, and those of Granada Mudéjares; but in the Kingdom of Fez they
call the Mudéjares Elches, and they are the people the king chiefly
employs in war. To proceed: every time he passed with his vessel he
anchored in a cove that was not two crossbow shots from the garden
where Zoraida was waiting; and there the renegade, together with the
two Moorish lads that rowed, used purposely to station himself, either
going through his prayers, or else practising as a part what he meant
to perform in earnest. And thus he would go to Zoraida’s garden and ask
for fruit, which her father gave him, not knowing him; but though, as
he afterwards told me, he sought to speak to Zoraida, and tell her who
he was, and that by my orders he was to take her to the land of the
Christians, so that she might feel satisfied and easy, he had never
been able to do so; for the Moorish women do not allow themselves to be
seen by any Moor or Turk, unless their husband or father bid them: with
Christian captives they permit freedom of intercourse and
communication, even more than might be considered proper. But for my
part I should have been sorry if he had spoken to her, for perhaps it
might have alarmed her to find her affairs talked of by renegades. But
God, who ordered it otherwise, afforded no opportunity for our
renegade’s well-meant purpose; and he, seeing how safely he could go to
Shershel and return, and anchor when and how and where he liked, and
that the Tagarin his partner had no will but his, and that, now I was
ransomed, all we wanted was to find some Christians to row, told me to
look out for any I should be willing to take with me, over and above
those who had been ransomed, and to engage them for the next Friday,
which he fixed upon for our departure. On this I spoke to twelve
Spaniards, all stout rowers, and such as could most easily leave the
city; but it was no easy matter to find so many just then, because
there were twenty ships out on a cruise and they had taken all the
rowers with them; and these would not have been found were it not that
their master remained at home that summer without going to sea in order
to finish a galliot that he had upon the stocks. To these men I said
nothing more than that the next Friday in the evening they were to come
out stealthily one by one and hang about Hadji Morato’s garden, waiting
for me there until I came. These directions I gave each one separately,
with orders that if they saw any other Christians there they were not
to say anything to them except that I had directed them to wait at that
spot.
This preliminary having been settled, another still more necessary step
had to be taken, which was to let Zoraida know how matters stood that
she might be prepared and forewarned, so as not to be taken by surprise
if we were suddenly to seize upon her before she thought the
Christians’ vessel could have returned. I determined, therefore, to go
to the garden and try if I could speak to her; and the day before my
departure I went there under the pretence of gathering herbs. The first
person I met was her father, who addressed me in the language that all
over Barbary and even in Constantinople is the medium between captives
and Moors, and is neither Morisco nor Castilian, nor of any other
nation, but a mixture of all languages, by means of which we can all
understand one another. In this sort of language, I say, he asked me
what I wanted in his garden, and to whom I belonged. I replied that I
was a slave of the Arnaut Mami (for I knew as a certainty that he was a
very great friend of his), and that I wanted some herbs to make a
salad. He asked me then whether I were on ransom or not, and what my
master demanded for me. While these questions and answers were
proceeding, the fair Zoraida, who had already perceived me some time
before, came out of the house in the garden, and as Moorish women are
by no means particular about letting themselves be seen by Christians,
or, as I have said before, at all coy, she had no hesitation in coming
to where her father stood with me; moreover her father, seeing her
approaching slowly, called to her to come. It would be beyond my power
now to describe to you the great beauty, the high-bred air, the
brilliant attire of my beloved Zoraida as she presented herself before
my eyes. I will content myself with saying that more pearls hung from
her fair neck, her ears, and her hair than she had hairs on her head.
On her ankles, which as is customary were bare, she had carcajes (for
so bracelets or anklets are called in Morisco) of the purest gold, set
with so many diamonds that she told me afterwards her father valued
them at ten thousand doubloons, and those she had on her wrists were
worth as much more. The pearls were in profusion and very fine, for the
highest display and adornment of the Moorish women is decking
themselves with rich pearls and seed-pearls; and of these there are
therefore more among the Moors than among any other people. Zoraida’s
father had to the reputation of possessing a great number, and the
purest in all Algiers, and of possessing also more than two hundred
thousand Spanish crowns; and she, who is now mistress of me only, was
mistress of all this. Whether thus adorned she would have been
beautiful or not, and what she must have been in her prosperity, may be
imagined from the beauty remaining to her after so many hardships; for,
as everyone knows, the beauty of some women has its times and its
seasons, and is increased or diminished by chance causes; and naturally
the emotions of the mind will heighten or impair it, though indeed more
frequently they totally destroy it. In a word she presented herself
before me that day attired with the utmost splendour, and supremely
beautiful; at any rate, she seemed to me the most beautiful object I
had ever seen; and when, besides, I thought of all I owed to her I felt
as though I had before me some heavenly being come to earth to bring me
relief and happiness.
As she approached her father told her in his own language that I was a
captive belonging to his friend the Arnaut Mami, and that I had come
for salad.
She took up the conversation, and in that mixture of tongues I have
spoken of she asked me if I was a gentleman, and why I was not
ransomed.
I answered that I was already ransomed, and that by the price it might
be seen what value my master set on me, as they had given one thousand
five hundred zoltanis for me; to which she replied, “Hadst thou been my
father’s, I can tell thee, I would not have let him part with thee for
twice as much, for you Christians always tell lies about yourselves and
make yourselves out poor to cheat the Moors.”
“That may be, lady,” said I; “but indeed I dealt truthfully with my
master, as I do and mean to do with everybody in the world.”
“And when dost thou go?” said Zoraida.
“To-morrow, I think,” said I, “for there is a vessel here from France
which sails to-morrow, and I think I shall go in her.”
“Would it not be better,” said Zoraida, “to wait for the arrival of
ships from Spain and go with them and not with the French who are not
your friends?”
“No,” said I; “though if there were intelligence that a vessel were now
coming from Spain it is true I might, perhaps, wait for it; however, it
is more likely I shall depart to-morrow, for the longing I feel to
return to my country and to those I love is so great that it will not
allow me to wait for another opportunity, however more convenient, if
it be delayed.”
“No doubt thou art married in thine own country,” said Zoraida, “and
for that reason thou art anxious to go and see thy wife.”
“I am not married,” I replied, “but I have given my promise to marry on
my arrival there.”
“And is the lady beautiful to whom thou hast given it?” said Zoraida.
“So beautiful,” said I, “that, to describe her worthily and tell thee
the truth, she is very like thee.”
At this her father laughed very heartily and said, “By Allah,
Christian, she must be very beautiful if she is like my daughter, who
is the most beautiful woman in all this kingdom: only look at her well
and thou wilt see I am telling the truth.”
Zoraida’s father as the better linguist helped to interpret most of
these words and phrases, for though she spoke the bastard language,
that, as I have said, is employed there, she expressed her meaning more
by signs than by words.
While we were still engaged in this conversation, a Moor came running
up, exclaiming that four Turks had leaped over the fence or wall of the
garden, and were gathering the fruit though it was not yet ripe. The
old man was alarmed and Zoraida too, for the Moors commonly, and, so to
speak, instinctively have a dread of the Turks, but particularly of the
soldiers, who are so insolent and domineering to the Moors who are
under their power that they treat them worse than if they were their
slaves. Her father said to Zoraida, “Daughter, retire into the house
and shut thyself in while I go and speak to these dogs; and thou,
Christian, pick thy herbs, and go in peace, and Allah bring thee safe
to thy own country.”
I bowed, and he went away to look for the Turks, leaving me alone with
Zoraida, who made as if she were about to retire as her father bade
her; but the moment he was concealed by the trees of the garden,
turning to me with her eyes full of tears she said, “Tameji, cristiano,
tameji?” that is to say, “Art thou going, Christian, art thou going?”
I made answer, “Yes, lady, but not without thee, come what may: be on
the watch for me on the next Juma, and be not alarmed when thou seest
us; for most surely we shall go to the land of the Christians.”
This I said in such a way that she understood perfectly all that passed
between us, and throwing her arm round my neck she began with feeble
steps to move towards the house; but as fate would have it (and it
might have been very unfortunate if Heaven had not otherwise ordered
it), just as we were moving on in the manner and position I have
described, with her arm round my neck, her father, as he returned after
having sent away the Turks, saw how we were walking and we perceived
that he saw us; but Zoraida, ready and quickwitted, took care not to
remove her arm from my neck, but on the contrary drew closer to me and
laid her head on my breast, bending her knees a little and showing all
the signs and tokens of fainting, while I at the same time made it seem
as though I were supporting her against my will. Her father came
running up to where we were, and seeing his daughter in this state
asked what was the matter with her; she, however, giving no answer, he
said, “No doubt she has fainted in alarm at the entrance of those
dogs,” and taking her from mine he drew her to his own breast, while
she sighing, her eyes still wet with tears, said again, “Ameji,
cristiano, ameji”—“Go, Christian, go.” To this her father replied,
“There is no need, daughter, for the Christian to go, for he has done
thee no harm, and the Turks have now gone; feel no alarm, there is
nothing to hurt thee, for as I say, the Turks at my request have gone
back the way they came.”
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“It was they who terrified her, as thou hast said, señor,” said I to
her father; “but since she tells me to go, I have no wish to displease
her: peace be with thee, and with thy leave I will come back to this
garden for herbs if need be, for my master says there are nowhere
better herbs for salad than here.”
“Come back for any thou hast need of,” replied Hadji Morato; “for my
daughter does not speak thus because she is displeased with thee or any
Christian: she only meant that the Turks should go, not thou; or that
it was time for thee to look for thy herbs.”
With this I at once took my leave of both; and she, looking as though
her heart were breaking, retired with her father. While pretending to
look for herbs I made the round of the garden at my ease, and studied
carefully all the approaches and outlets, and the fastenings of the
house and everything that could be taken advantage of to make our task
easy.
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Having done so I went and gave an account of all that had taken place
to the renegade and my comrades, and looked forward with impatience to
the hour when, all fear at an end, I should find myself in possession
of the prize which fortune held out to me in the fair and lovely
Zoraida. The time passed at length, and the appointed day we so longed
for arrived; and, all following out the arrangement and plan which,
after careful consideration and many a long discussion, we had decided
upon, we succeeded as fully as we could have wished; for on the Friday
following the day upon which I spoke to Zoraida in the garden, the
renegade anchored his vessel at nightfall almost opposite the spot
where she was. The Christians who were to row were ready and in hiding
in different places round about, all waiting for me, anxious and
elated, and eager to attack the vessel they had before their eyes; for
they did not know the renegade’s plan, but expected that they were to
gain their liberty by force of arms and by killing the Moors who were
on board the vessel. As soon, then, as I and my comrades made our
appearance, all those that were in hiding seeing us came and joined us.
It was now the time when the city gates are shut, and there was no one
to be seen in all the space outside. When we were collected together we
debated whether it would be better first to go for Zoraida, or to make
prisoners of the Moorish rowers who rowed in the vessel; but while we
were still uncertain our renegade came up asking us what kept us, as it
was now the time, and all the Moors were off their guard and most of
them asleep. We told him why we hesitated, but he said it was of more
importance first to secure the vessel, which could be done with the
greatest ease and without any danger, and then we could go for Zoraida.
We all approved of what he said, and so without further delay, guided
by him we made for the vessel, and he leaping on board first, drew his
cutlass and said in Morisco, “Let no one stir from this if he does not
want it to cost him his life.” By this almost all the Christians were
on board, and the Moors, who were fainthearted, hearing their captain
speak in this way, were cowed, and without any one of them taking to
his arms (and indeed they had few or hardly any) they submitted without
saying a word to be bound by the Christians, who quickly secured them,
threatening them that if they raised any kind of outcry they would be
all put to the sword. This having been accomplished, and half of our
party being left to keep guard over them, the rest of us, again taking
the renegade as our guide, hastened towards Hadji Morato’s garden, and
as good luck would have it, on trying the gate it opened as easily as
if it had not been locked; and so, quite quietly and in silence, we
reached the house without being perceived by anybody. The lovely
Zoraida was watching for us at a window, and as soon as she perceived
that there were people there, she asked in a low voice if we were
“Nizarani,” as much as to say or ask if we were Christians. I answered
that we were, and begged her to come down. As soon as she recognised me
she did not delay an instant, but without answering a word came down
immediately, opened the door and presented herself before us all, so
beautiful and so richly attired that I cannot attempt to describe her.
The moment I saw her I took her hand and kissed it, and the renegade
and my two comrades did the same; and the rest, who knew nothing of the
circumstances, did as they saw us do, for it only seemed as if we were
returning thanks to her, and recognising her as the giver of our
liberty. The renegade asked her in the Morisco language if her father
was in the house. She replied that he was and that he was asleep.
“Then it will be necessary to waken him and take him with us,” said the
renegade, “and everything of value in this fair mansion.”
“Nay,” said she, “my father must not on any account be touched, and
there is nothing in the house except what I shall take, and that will
be quite enough to enrich and satisfy all of you; wait a little and you
shall see,” and so saying she went in, telling us she would return
immediately and bidding us keep quiet without making any noise.
I asked the renegade what had passed between them, and when he told me,
I declared that nothing should be done except in accordance with the
wishes of Zoraida, who now came back with a little trunk so full of
gold crowns that she could scarcely carry it. Unfortunately her father
awoke while this was going on, and hearing a noise in the garden, came
to the window, and at once perceiving that all those who were there
were Christians, raising a prodigiously loud outcry, he began to call
out in Arabic, “Christians, Christians! thieves, thieves!” by which
cries we were all thrown into the greatest fear and embarrassment; but
the renegade seeing the danger we were in and how important it was for
him to effect his purpose before we were heard, mounted with the utmost
quickness to where Hadji Morato was, and with him went some of our
party; I, however, did not dare to leave Zoraida, who had fallen almost
fainting in my arms. To be brief, those who had gone upstairs acted so
promptly that in an instant they came down, carrying Hadji Morato with
his hands bound and a napkin tied over his mouth, which prevented him
from uttering a word, warning him at the same time that to attempt to
speak would cost him his life. When his daughter caught sight of him
she covered her eyes so as not to see him, and her father was
horror-stricken, not knowing how willingly she had placed herself in
our hands. But it was now most essential for us to be on the move, and
carefully and quickly we regained the vessel, where those who had
remained on board were waiting for us in apprehension of some mishap
having befallen us. It was barely two hours after night set in when we
were all on board the vessel, where the cords were removed from the
hands of Zoraida’s father, and the napkin from his mouth; but the
renegade once more told him not to utter a word, or they would take his
life. He, when he saw his daughter there, began to sigh piteously, and
still more when he perceived that I held her closely embraced and that
she lay quiet without resisting or complaining, or showing any
reluctance; nevertheless he remained silent lest they should carry into
effect the repeated threats the renegade had addressed to him.
Finding herself now on board, and that we were about to give way with
the oars, Zoraida, seeing her father there, and the other Moors bound,
bade the renegade ask me to do her the favour of releasing the Moors
and setting her father at liberty, for she would rather drown herself
in the sea than suffer a father that had loved her so dearly to be
carried away captive before her eyes and on her account. The renegade
repeated this to me, and I replied that I was very willing to do so;
but he replied that it was not advisable, because if they were left
there they would at once raise the country and stir up the city, and
lead to the despatch of swift cruisers in pursuit, and our being taken,
by sea or land, without any possibility of escape; and that all that
could be done was to set them free on the first Christian ground we
reached. On this point we all agreed; and Zoraida, to whom it was
explained, together with the reasons that prevented us from doing at
once what she desired, was satisfied likewise; and then in glad silence
and with cheerful alacrity each of our stout rowers took his oar, and
commending ourselves to God with all our hearts, we began to shape our
course for the island of Majorca, the nearest Christian land. Owing,
however, to the Tramontana rising a little, and the sea growing
somewhat rough, it was impossible for us to keep a straight course for
Majorca, and we were compelled to coast in the direction of Oran, not
without great uneasiness on our part lest we should be observed from
the town of Shershel, which lies on that coast, not more than sixty
miles from Algiers. Moreover we were afraid of meeting on that course
one of the galliots that usually come with goods from Tetuan; although
each of us for himself and all of us together felt confident that, if
we were to meet a merchant galliot, so that it were not a cruiser, not
only should we not be lost, but that we should take a vessel in which
we could more safely accomplish our voyage. As we pursued our course
Zoraida kept her head between my hands so as not to see her father, and
I felt that she was praying to Lela Marien to help us.
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We might have made about thirty miles when daybreak found us some three
musket-shots off the land, which seemed to us deserted, and without
anyone to see us. For all that, however, by hard rowing we put out a
little to sea, for it was now somewhat calmer, and having gained about
two leagues the word was given to row by batches, while we ate
something, for the vessel was well provided; but the rowers said it was
not a time to take any rest; let food be served out to those who were
not rowing, but they would not leave their oars on any account. This
was done, but now a stiff breeze began to blow, which obliged us to
leave off rowing and make sail at once and steer for Oran, as it was
impossible to make any other course. All this was done very promptly,
and under sail we ran more than eight miles an hour without any fear,
except that of coming across some vessel out on a roving expedition. We
gave the Moorish rowers some food, and the renegade comforted them by
telling them that they were not held as captives, as we should set them
free on the first opportunity.
The same was said to Zoraida’s father, who replied, “Anything else,
Christian, I might hope for or think likely from your generosity and
good behaviour, but do not think me so simple as to imagine you will
give me my liberty; for you would have never exposed yourselves to the
danger of depriving me of it only to restore it to me so generously,
especially as you know who I am and the sum you may expect to receive
on restoring it; and if you will only name that, I here offer you all
you require for myself and for my unhappy daughter there; or else for
her alone, for she is the greatest and most precious part of my soul.”
As he said this he began to weep so bitterly that he filled us all with
compassion and forced Zoraida to look at him, and when she saw him
weeping she was so moved that she rose from my feet and ran to throw
her arms round him, and pressing her face to his, they both gave way to
such an outburst of tears that several of us were constrained to keep
them company.
But when her father saw her in full dress and with all her jewels about
her, he said to her in his own language, “What means this, my daughter?
Last night, before this terrible misfortune in which we are plunged
befell us, I saw thee in thy everyday and indoor garments; and now,
without having had time to attire thyself, and without my bringing thee
any joyful tidings to furnish an occasion for adorning and bedecking
thyself, I see thee arrayed in the finest attire it would be in my
power to give thee when fortune was most kind to us. Answer me this;
for it causes me greater anxiety and surprise than even this misfortune
itself.”
The renegade interpreted to us what the Moor said to his daughter; she,
however, returned him no answer. But when he observed in one corner of
the vessel the little trunk in which she used to keep her jewels, which
he well knew he had left in Algiers and had not brought to the garden,
he was still more amazed, and asked her how that trunk had come into
our hands, and what there was in it. To which the renegade, without
waiting for Zoraida to reply, made answer, “Do not trouble thyself by
asking thy daughter Zoraida so many questions, señor, for the one
answer I will give thee will serve for all; I would have thee know that
she is a Christian, and that it is she who has been the file for our
chains and our deliverer from captivity. She is here of her own free
will, as glad, I imagine, to find herself in this position as he who
escapes from darkness into the light, from death to life, and from
suffering to glory.”
“Daughter, is this true, what he says?” cried the Moor.
“It is,” replied Zoraida.
“That thou art in truth a Christian,” said the old man, “and that thou
hast given thy father into the power of his enemies?”
To which Zoraida made answer, “A Christian I am, but it is not I who
have placed thee in this position, for it never was my wish to leave
thee or do thee harm, but only to do good to myself.”
“And what good hast thou done thyself, daughter?” said he.
“Ask thou that,” said she, “of Lela Marien, for she can tell thee
better than I.”
The Moor had hardly heard these words when with marvellous quickness he
flung himself headforemost into the sea, where no doubt he would have
been drowned had not the long and full dress he wore held him up for a
little on the surface of the water. Zoraida cried aloud to us to save
him, and we all hastened to help, and seizing him by his robe we drew
him in half drowned and insensible, at which Zoraida was in such
distress that she wept over him as piteously and bitterly as though he
were already dead. We turned him upon his face and he voided a great
quantity of water, and at the end of two hours came to himself.
Meanwhile, the wind having changed we were compelled to head for the
land, and ply our oars to avoid being driven on shore; but it was our
good fortune to reach a creek that lies on one side of a small
promontory or cape, called by the Moors that of the “Cava rumia,” which
in our language means “the wicked Christian woman;” for it is a
tradition among them that La Cava, through whom Spain was lost, lies
buried at that spot; “cava” in their language meaning “wicked woman,”
and “rumia” “Christian;” moreover, they count it unlucky to anchor
there when necessity compels them, and they never do so otherwise. For
us, however, it was not the resting-place of the wicked woman but a
haven of safety for our relief, so much had the sea now got up. We
posted a look-out on shore, and never let the oars out of our hands,
and ate of the stores the renegade had laid in, imploring God and Our
Lady with all our hearts to help and protect us, that we might give a
happy ending to a beginning so prosperous. At the entreaty of Zoraida
orders were given to set on shore her father and the other Moors who
were still bound, for she could not endure, nor could her tender heart
bear to see her father in bonds and her fellow-countrymen prisoners
before her eyes. We promised her to do this at the moment of departure,
for as it was uninhabited we ran no risk in releasing them at that
place.
Our prayers were not so far in vain as to be unheard by Heaven, for
after a while the wind changed in our favour, and made the sea calm,
inviting us once more to resume our voyage with a good heart. Seeing
this we unbound the Moors, and one by one put them on shore, at which
they were filled with amazement; but when we came to land Zoraida’s
father, who had now completely recovered his senses, he said:
“Why is it, think ye, Christians, that this wicked woman is rejoiced at
your giving me my liberty? Think ye it is because of the affection she
bears me? Nay verily, it is only because of the hindrance my presence
offers to the execution of her base designs. And think not that it is
her belief that yours is better than ours that has led her to change
her religion; it is only because she knows that immodesty is more
freely practised in your country than in ours.” Then turning to
Zoraida, while I and another of the Christians held him fast by both
arms, lest he should do some mad act, he said to her, “Infamous girl,
misguided maiden, whither in thy blindness and madness art thou going
in the hands of these dogs, our natural enemies? Cursed be the hour
when I begot thee! Cursed the luxury and indulgence in which I reared
thee!”
But seeing that he was not likely soon to cease I made haste to put him
on shore, and thence he continued his maledictions and lamentations
aloud; calling on Mohammed to pray to Allah to destroy us, to confound
us, to make an end of us; and when, in consequence of having made sail,
we could no longer hear what he said we could see what he did; how he
plucked out his beard and tore his hair and lay writhing on the ground.
But once he raised his voice to such a pitch that we were able to hear
what he said. “Come back, dear daughter, come back to shore; I forgive
thee all; let those men have the money, for it is theirs now, and come
back to comfort thy sorrowing father, who will yield up his life on
this barren strand if thou dost leave him.”
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All this Zoraida heard, and heard with sorrow and tears, and all she
could say in answer was, “Allah grant that Lela Marien, who has made me
become a Christian, give thee comfort in thy sorrow, my father. Allah
knows that I could not do otherwise than I have done, and that these
Christians owe nothing to my will; for even had I wished not to
accompany them, but remain at home, it would have been impossible for
me, so eagerly did my soul urge me on to the accomplishment of this
purpose, which I feel to be as righteous as to thee, dear father, it
seems wicked.”
But neither could her father hear her nor we see him when she said
this; and so, while I consoled Zoraida, we turned our attention to our
voyage, in which a breeze from the right point so favoured us that we
made sure of finding ourselves off the coast of Spain on the morrow by
daybreak. But, as good seldom or never comes pure and unmixed, without
being attended or followed by some disturbing evil that gives a shock
to it, our fortune, or perhaps the curses which the Moor had hurled at
his daughter (for whatever kind of father they may come from these are
always to be dreaded), brought it about that when we were now in
mid-sea, and the night about three hours spent, as we were running with
all sail set and oars lashed, for the favouring breeze saved us the
trouble of using them, we saw by the light of the moon, which shone
brilliantly, a square-rigged vessel in full sail close to us, luffing
up and standing across our course, and so close that we had to strike
sail to avoid running foul of her, while they too put the helm hard up
to let us pass. They came to the side of the ship to ask who we were,
whither we were bound, and whence we came, but as they asked this in
French our renegade said, “Let no one answer, for no doubt these are
French corsairs who plunder all comers.”
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Acting on this warning no one answered a word, but after we had gone a
little ahead, and the vessel was now lying to leeward, suddenly they
fired two guns, and apparently both loaded with chain-shot, for with
one they cut our mast in half and brought down both it and the sail
into the sea, and the other, discharged at the same moment, sent a ball
into our vessel amidships, staving her in completely, but without doing
any further damage. We, however, finding ourselves sinking began to
shout for help and call upon those in the ship to pick us up as we were
beginning to fill. They then lay to, and lowering a skiff or boat, as
many as a dozen Frenchmen, well armed with match-locks, and their
matches burning, got into it and came alongside; and seeing how few we
were, and that our vessel was going down, they took us in, telling us
that this had come to us through our incivility in not giving them an
answer. Our renegade took the trunk containing Zoraida’s wealth and
dropped it into the sea without anyone perceiving what he did. In short
we went on board with the Frenchmen, who, after having ascertained all
they wanted to know about us, rifled us of everything we had, as if
they had been our bitterest enemies, and from Zoraida they took even
the anklets she wore on her feet; but the distress they caused her did
not distress me so much as the fear I was in that from robbing her of
her rich and precious jewels they would proceed to rob her of the most
precious jewel that she valued more than all. The desires, however, of
those people do not go beyond money, but of that their covetousness is
insatiable, and on this occasion it was carried to such a pitch that
they would have taken even the clothes we wore as captives if they had
been worth anything to them. It was the advice of some of them to throw
us all into the sea wrapped up in a sail; for their purpose was to
trade at some of the ports of Spain, giving themselves out as Bretons,
and if they brought us alive they would be punished as soon as the
robbery was discovered; but the captain (who was the one who had
plundered my beloved Zoraida) said he was satisfied with the prize he
had got, and that he would not touch at any Spanish port, but pass the
Straits of Gibraltar by night, or as best he could, and make for La
Rochelle, from which he had sailed. So they agreed by common consent to
give us the skiff belonging to their ship and all we required for the
short voyage that remained to us, and this they did the next day on
coming in sight of the Spanish coast, with which, and the joy we felt,
all our sufferings and miseries were as completely forgotten as if they
had never been endured by us, such is the delight of recovering lost
liberty.
It may have been about mid-day when they placed us in the boat, giving
us two kegs of water and some biscuit; and the captain, moved by I know
not what compassion, as the lovely Zoraida was about to embark, gave
her some forty gold crowns, and would not permit his men to take from
her those same garments which she has on now. We got into the boat,
returning them thanks for their kindness to us, and showing ourselves
grateful rather than indignant. They stood out to sea, steering for the
straits; we, without looking to any compass save the land we had before
us, set ourselves to row with such energy that by sunset we were so
near that we might easily, we thought, land before the night was far
advanced. But as the moon did not show that night, and the sky was
clouded, and as we knew not whereabouts we were, it did not seem to us
a prudent thing to make for the shore, as several of us advised, saying
we ought to run ourselves ashore even if it were on rocks and far from
any habitation, for in this way we should be relieved from the
apprehensions we naturally felt of the prowling vessels of the Tetuan
corsairs, who leave Barbary at nightfall and are on the Spanish coast
by daybreak, where they commonly take some prize, and then go home to
sleep in their own houses. But of the conflicting counsels the one
which was adopted was that we should approach gradually, and land where
we could if the sea were calm enough to permit us. This was done, and a
little before midnight we drew near to the foot of a huge and lofty
mountain, not so close to the sea but that it left a narrow space on
which to land conveniently. We ran our boat up on the sand, and all
sprang out and kissed the ground, and with tears of joyful satisfaction
returned thanks to God our Lord for all his incomparable goodness to us
on our voyage. We took out of the boat the provisions it contained, and
drew it up on the shore, and then climbed a long way up the mountain,
for even there we could not feel easy in our hearts, or persuade
ourselves that it was Christian soil that was now under our feet.
The dawn came, more slowly, I think, than we could have wished; we
completed the ascent in order to see if from the summit any habitation
or any shepherds’ huts could be discovered, but strain our eyes as we
might, neither dwelling, nor human being, nor path nor road could we
perceive. However, we determined to push on farther, as it could not
but be that ere long we must see someone who could tell us where we
were. But what distressed me most was to see Zoraida going on foot over
that rough ground; for though I once carried her on my shoulders, she
was more wearied by my weariness than rested by the rest; and so she
would never again allow me to undergo the exertion, and went on very
patiently and cheerfully, while I led her by the hand. We had gone
rather less than a quarter of a league when the sound of a little bell
fell on our ears, a clear proof that there were flocks hard by, and
looking about carefully to see if any were within view, we observed a
young shepherd tranquilly and unsuspiciously trimming a stick with his
knife at the foot of a cork tree. We called to him, and he, raising his
head, sprang nimbly to his feet, for, as we afterwards learned, the
first who presented themselves to his sight were the renegade and
Zoraida, and seeing them in Moorish dress he imagined that all the
Moors of Barbary were upon him; and plunging with marvellous swiftness
into the thicket in front of him, he began to raise a prodigious
outcry, exclaiming, “The Moors—the Moors have landed! To arms, to
arms!” We were all thrown into perplexity by these cries, not knowing
what to do; but reflecting that the shouts of the shepherd would raise
the country and that the mounted coast-guard would come at once to see
what was the matter, we agreed that the renegade must strip off his
Turkish garments and put on a captive’s jacket or coat which one of our
party gave him at once, though he himself was reduced to his shirt; and
so commending ourselves to God, we followed the same road which we saw
the shepherd take, expecting every moment that the coast-guard would be
down upon us. Nor did our expectation deceive us, for two hours had not
passed when, coming out of the brushwood into the open ground, we
perceived some fifty mounted men swiftly approaching us at a
hand-gallop. As soon as we saw them we stood still, waiting for them;
but as they came close and, instead of the Moors they were in quest of,
saw a set of poor Christians, they were taken aback, and one of them
asked if it could be we who were the cause of the shepherd having
raised the call to arms. I said “Yes,” and as I was about to explain to
him what had occurred, and whence we came and who we were, one of the
Christians of our party recognised the horseman who had put the
question to us, and before I could say anything more he exclaimed:
“Thanks be to God, sirs, for bringing us to such good quarters; for, if
I do not deceive myself, the ground we stand on is that of Velez Malaga
unless, indeed, all my years of captivity have made me unable to
recollect that you, señor, who ask who we are, are Pedro de Bustamante,
my uncle.”
The Christian captive had hardly uttered these words, when the horseman
threw himself off his horse, and ran to embrace the young man, crying:
“Nephew of my soul and life! I recognise thee now; and long have I
mourned thee as dead, I, and my sister, thy mother, and all thy kin
that are still alive, and whom God has been pleased to preserve that
they may enjoy the happiness of seeing thee. We knew long since that
thou wert in Algiers, and from the appearance of thy garments and those
of all this company, I conclude that ye have had a miraculous
restoration to liberty.”
“It is true,” replied the young man, “and by-and-by we will tell you
all.”
As soon as the horsemen understood that we were Christian captives,
they dismounted from their horses, and each offered his to carry us to
the city of Velez Malaga, which was a league and a half distant. Some
of them went to bring the boat to the city, we having told them where
we had left it; others took us up behind them, and Zoraida was placed
on the horse of the young man’s uncle. The whole town came out to meet
us, for they had by this time heard of our arrival from one who had
gone on in advance. They were not astonished to see liberated captives
or captive Moors, for people on that coast are well used to see both
one and the other; but they were astonished at the beauty of Zoraida,
which was just then heightened, as well by the exertion of travelling
as by joy at finding herself on Christian soil, and relieved of all
fear of being lost; for this had brought such a glow upon her face,
that unless my affection for her were deceiving me, I would venture to
say that there was not a more beautiful creature in the world—at least,
that I had ever seen. We went straight to the church to return thanks
to God for the mercies we had received, and when Zoraida entered it she
said there were faces there like Lela Marien’s. We told her they were
her images; and as well as he could the renegade explained to her what
they meant, that she might adore them as if each of them were the very
same Lela Marien that had spoken to her; and she, having great
intelligence and a quick and clear instinct, understood at once all he
said to her about them. Thence they took us away and distributed us all
in different houses in the town; but as for the renegade, Zoraida, and
myself, the Christian who came with us brought us to the house of his
parents, who had a fair share of the gifts of fortune, and treated us
with as much kindness as they did their own son.
We remained six days in Velez, at the end of which the renegade, having
informed himself of all that was requisite for him to do, set out for
the city of Granada to restore himself to the sacred bosom of the
Church through the medium of the Holy Inquisition. The other released
captives took their departures, each the way that seemed best to him,
and Zoraida and I were left alone, with nothing more than the crowns
which the courtesy of the Frenchman had bestowed upon Zoraida, out of
which I bought the beast on which she rides; and, I for the present
attending her as her father and squire and not as her husband, we are
now going to ascertain if my father is living, or if any of my brothers
has had better fortune than mine has been; though, as Heaven has made
me the companion of Zoraida, I think no other lot could be assigned to
me, however happy, that I would rather have. The patience with which
she endures the hardships that poverty brings with it, and the
eagerness she shows to become a Christian, are such that they fill me
with admiration, and bind me to serve her all my life; though the
happiness I feel in seeing myself hers, and her mine, is disturbed and
marred by not knowing whether I shall find any corner to shelter her in
my own country, or whether time and death may not have made such
changes in the fortunes and lives of my father and brothers, that I
shall hardly find anyone who knows me, if they are not alive.
I have no more of my story to tell you, gentlemen; whether it be an
interesting or a curious one let your better judgments decide; all I
can say is I would gladly have told it to you more briefly; although my
fear of wearying you has made me leave out more than one circumstance.
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CHAPTER XLII.
WHICH TREATS OF WHAT FURTHER TOOK PLACE IN THE INN, AND OF SEVERAL
OTHER THINGS WORTH KNOWING
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With these words the captive held his peace, and Don Fernando said to
him, “In truth, captain, the manner in which you have related this
remarkable adventure has been such as befitted the novelty and
strangeness of the matter. The whole story is curious and uncommon, and
abounds with incidents that fill the hearers with wonder and
astonishment; and so great is the pleasure we have found in listening
to it that we should be glad if it were to begin again, even though
to-morrow were to find us still occupied with the same tale.” And while
he said this Cardenio and the rest of them offered to be of service to
him in any way that lay in their power, and in words and language so
kindly and sincere that the captain was much gratified by their
good-will. In particular Don Fernando offered, if he would go back with
him, to get his brother the marquis to become godfather at the baptism
of Zoraida, and on his own part to provide him with the means of making
his appearance in his own country with the credit and comfort he was
entitled to. For all this the captive returned thanks very courteously,
although he would not accept any of their generous offers.
By this time night closed in, and as it did, there came up to the inn a
coach attended by some men on horseback, who demanded accommodation; to
which the landlady replied that there was not a hand’s breadth of the
whole inn unoccupied.
“Still, for all that,” said one of those who had entered on horseback,
“room must be found for his lordship the Judge here.”
At this name the landlady was taken aback, and said, “Señor, the fact
is I have no beds; but if his lordship the Judge carries one with him,
as no doubt he does, let him come in and welcome; for my husband and I
will give up our room to accommodate his worship.”
“Very good, so be it,” said the squire; but in the meantime a man had
got out of the coach whose dress indicated at a glance the office and
post he held, for the long robe with ruffled sleeves that he wore
showed that he was, as his servant said, a Judge of appeal. He led by
the hand a young girl in a travelling dress, apparently about sixteen
years of age, and of such a high-bred air, so beautiful and so
graceful, that all were filled with admiration when she made her
appearance, and but for having seen Dorothea, Luscinda, and Zoraida,
who were there in the inn, they would have fancied that a beauty like
that of this maiden’s would have been hard to find. Don Quixote was
present at the entrance of the Judge with the young lady, and as soon
as he saw him he said, “Your worship may with confidence enter and take
your ease in this castle; for though the accommodation be scanty and
poor, there are no quarters so cramped or inconvenient that they cannot
make room for arms and letters; above all if arms and letters have
beauty for a guide and leader, as letters represented by your worship
have in this fair maiden, to whom not only ought castles to throw
themselves open and yield themselves up, but rocks should rend
themselves asunder and mountains divide and bow themselves down to give
her a reception. Enter, your worship, I say, into this paradise, for
here you will find stars and suns to accompany the heaven your worship
brings with you, here you will find arms in their supreme excellence,
and beauty in its highest perfection.”
The Judge was struck with amazement at the language of Don Quixote,
whom he scrutinized very carefully, no less astonished by his figure
than by his talk; and before he could find words to answer him he had a
fresh surprise, when he saw opposite to him Luscinda, Dorothea, and
Zoraida, who, having heard of the new guests and of the beauty of the
young lady, had come to see her and welcome her; Don Fernando,
Cardenio, and the curate, however, greeted him in a more intelligible
and polished style. In short, the Judge made his entrance in a state of
bewilderment, as well with what he saw as what he heard, and the fair
ladies of the inn gave the fair damsel a cordial welcome. On the whole
he could perceive that all who were there were people of quality; but
with the figure, countenance, and bearing of Don Quixote he was at his
wits’ end; and all civilities having been exchanged, and the
accommodation of the inn inquired into, it was settled, as it had been
before settled, that all the women should retire to the garret that has
been already mentioned, and that the men should remain outside as if to
guard them; the Judge, therefore, was very well pleased to allow his
daughter, for such the damsel was, to go with the ladies, which she did
very willingly; and with part of the host’s narrow bed and half of what
the Judge had brought with him, they made a more comfortable
arrangement for the night than they had expected.
The captive, whose heart had leaped within him the instant he saw the
Judge, telling him somehow that this was his brother, asked one of the
servants who accompanied him what his name was, and whether he knew
from what part of the country he came. The servant replied that he was
called the Licentiate Juan Perez de Viedma, and that he had heard it
said he came from a village in the mountains of Leon. From this
statement, and what he himself had seen, he felt convinced that this
was his brother who had adopted letters by his father’s advice; and
excited and rejoiced, he called Don Fernando and Cardenio and the
curate aside, and told them how the matter stood, assuring them that
the judge was his brother. The servant had further informed him that he
was now going to the Indies with the appointment of Judge of the
Supreme Court of Mexico; and he had learned, likewise, that the young
lady was his daughter, whose mother had died in giving birth to her,
and that he was very rich in consequence of the dowry left to him with
the daughter. He asked their advice as to what means he should adopt to
make himself known, or to ascertain beforehand whether, when he had
made himself known, his brother, seeing him so poor, would be ashamed
of him, or would receive him with a warm heart.
“Leave it to me to find out that,” said the curate; “though there is no
reason for supposing, señor captain, that you will not be kindly
received, because the worth and wisdom that your brother’s bearing
shows him to possess do not make it likely that he will prove haughty
or insensible, or that he will not know how to estimate the accidents
of fortune at their proper value.”
“Still,” said the captain, “I would not make myself known abruptly, but
in some indirect way.”
“I have told you already,” said the curate, “that I will manage it in a
way to satisfy us all.”
By this time supper was ready, and they all took their seats at the
table, except the captive, and the ladies, who supped by themselves in
their own room. In the middle of supper the curate said:
“I had a comrade of your worship’s name, Señor Judge, in
Constantinople, where I was a captive for several years, and that same
comrade was one of the stoutest soldiers and captains in the whole
Spanish infantry; but he had as large a share of misfortune as he had
of gallantry and courage.”
“And how was the captain called, señor?” asked the Judge.
“He was called Ruy Perez de Viedma,” replied the curate, “and he was
born in a village in the mountains of Leon; and he mentioned a
circumstance connected with his father and his brothers which, had it
not been told me by so truthful a man as he was, I should have set down
as one of those fables the old women tell over the fire in winter; for
he said his father had divided his property among his three sons and
had addressed words of advice to them sounder than any of Cato’s. But I
can say this much, that the choice he made of going to the wars was
attended with such success, that by his gallant conduct and courage,
and without any help save his own merit, he rose in a few years to be
captain of infantry, and to see himself on the high-road and in
position to be given the command of a corps before long; but Fortune
was against him, for where he might have expected her favour he lost
it, and with it his liberty, on that glorious day when so many
recovered theirs, at the battle of Lepanto. I lost mine at the Goletta,
and after a variety of adventures we found ourselves comrades at
Constantinople. Thence he went to Algiers, where he met with one of the
most extraordinary adventures that ever befell anyone in the world.”
Here the curate went on to relate briefly his brother’s adventure with
Zoraida; to all which the Judge gave such an attentive hearing that he
never before had been so much of a hearer. The curate, however, only
went so far as to describe how the Frenchmen plundered those who were
in the boat, and the poverty and distress in which his comrade and the
fair Moor were left, of whom he said he had not been able to learn what
became of them, or whether they had reached Spain, or been carried to
France by the Frenchmen.
The captain, standing a little to one side, was listening to all the
curate said, and watching every movement of his brother, who, as soon
as he perceived the curate had made an end of his story, gave a deep
sigh and said with his eyes full of tears, “Oh, señor, if you only knew
what news you have given me and how it comes home to me, making me show
how I feel it with these tears that spring from my eyes in spite of all
my worldly wisdom and self-restraint! That brave captain that you speak
of is my eldest brother, who, being of a bolder and loftier mind than
my other brother or myself, chose the honourable and worthy calling of
arms, which was one of the three careers our father proposed to us, as
your comrade mentioned in that fable you thought he was telling you. I
followed that of letters, in which God and my own exertions have raised
me to the position in which you see me. My second brother is in Peru,
so wealthy that with what he has sent to my father and to me he has
fully repaid the portion he took with him, and has even furnished my
father’s hands with the means of gratifying his natural generosity,
while I too have been enabled to pursue my studies in a more becoming
and creditable fashion, and so to attain my present standing. My father
is still alive, though dying with anxiety to hear of his eldest son,
and he prays God unceasingly that death may not close his eyes until he
has looked upon those of his son; but with regard to him what surprises
me is, that having so much common sense as he had, he should have
neglected to give any intelligence about himself, either in his
troubles and sufferings, or in his prosperity, for if his father or any
of us had known of his condition he need not have waited for that
miracle of the reed to obtain his ransom; but what now disquiets me is
the uncertainty whether those Frenchmen may have restored him to
liberty, or murdered him to hide the robbery. All this will make me
continue my journey, not with the satisfaction in which I began it, but
in the deepest melancholy and sadness. Oh dear brother! that I only
knew where thou art now, and I would hasten to seek thee out and
deliver thee from thy sufferings, though it were to cost me suffering
myself! Oh that I could bring news to our old father that thou art
alive, even wert thou in the deepest dungeon of Barbary; for his wealth
and my brother’s and mine would rescue thee thence! Oh beautiful and
generous Zoraida, that I could repay thy goodness to a brother! That I
could be present at the new birth of thy soul, and at thy bridal that
would give us all such happiness!”
All this and more the Judge uttered with such deep emotion at the news
he had received of his brother that all who heard him shared in it,
showing their sympathy with his sorrow. The curate, seeing, then, how
well he had succeeded in carrying out his purpose and the captain’s
wishes, had no desire to keep them unhappy any longer, so he rose from
the table and going into the room where Zoraida was he took her by the
hand, Luscinda, Dorothea, and the Judge’s daughter following her. The
captain was waiting to see what the curate would do, when the latter,
taking him with the other hand, advanced with both of them to where the
Judge and the other gentlemen were and said, “Let your tears cease to
flow, Señor Judge, and the wish of your heart be gratified as fully as
you could desire, for you have before you your worthy brother and your
good sister-in-law. He whom you see here is the Captain Viedma, and
this is the fair Moor who has been so good to him. The Frenchmen I told
you of have reduced them to the state of poverty you see that you may
show the generosity of your kind heart.”
The captain ran to embrace his brother, who placed both hands on his
breast so as to have a good look at him, holding him a little way off
but as soon as he had fully recognised him he clasped him in his arms
so closely, shedding such tears of heartfelt joy, that most of those
present could not but join in them. The words the brothers exchanged,
the emotion they showed can scarcely be imagined, I fancy, much less
put down in writing. They told each other in a few words the events of
their lives; they showed the true affection of brothers in all its
strength; then the judge embraced Zoraida, putting all he possessed at
her disposal; then he made his daughter embrace her, and the fair
Christian and the lovely Moor drew fresh tears from every eye. And
there was Don Quixote observing all these strange proceedings
attentively without uttering a word, and attributing the whole to
chimeras of knight-errantry. Then they agreed that the captain and
Zoraida should return with his brother to Seville, and send news to his
father of his having been delivered and found, so as to enable him to
come and be present at the marriage and baptism of Zoraida, for it was
impossible for the Judge to put off his journey, as he was informed
that in a month from that time the fleet was to sail from Seville for
New Spain, and to miss the passage would have been a great
inconvenience to him. In short, everybody was well pleased and glad at
the captive’s good fortune; and as now almost two-thirds of the night
were past, they resolved to retire to rest for the remainder of it. Don
Quixote offered to mount guard over the castle lest they should be
attacked by some giant or other malevolent scoundrel, covetous of the
great treasure of beauty the castle contained. Those who understood him
returned him thanks for this service, and they gave the Judge an
account of his extraordinary humour, with which he was not a little
amused. Sancho Panza alone was fuming at the lateness of the hour for
retiring to rest; and he of all was the one that made himself most
comfortable, as he stretched himself on the trappings of his ass,
which, as will be told farther on, cost him so dear.
The ladies, then, having retired to their chamber, and the others
having disposed themselves with as little discomfort as they could, Don
Quixote sallied out of the inn to act as sentinel of the castle as he
had promised. It happened, however, that a little before the approach
of dawn a voice so musical and sweet reached the ears of the ladies
that it forced them all to listen attentively, but especially Dorothea,
who had been awake, and by whose side Doña Clara de Viedma, for so the
Judge’s daughter was called, lay sleeping. No one could imagine who it
was that sang so sweetly, and the voice was unaccompanied by any
instrument. At one moment it seemed to them as if the singer were in
the courtyard, at another in the stable; and as they were all
attention, wondering, Cardenio came to the door and said, “Listen,
whoever is not asleep, and you will hear a muleteer’s voice that
enchants as it chants.”
“We are listening to it already, señor,” said Dorothea; on which
Cardenio went away; and Dorothea, giving all her attention to it, made
out the words of the song to be these:
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CHAPTER XLIII.
WHEREIN IS RELATED THE PLEASANT STORY OF THE MULETEER, TOGETHER WITH
OTHER STRANGE THINGS THAT CAME TO PASS IN THE INN
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Ah me, Love’s mariner am I
On Love’s deep ocean sailing;
I know not where the haven lies,
I dare not hope to gain it.
One solitary distant star
Is all I have to guide me,
A brighter orb than those of old
That Palinurus lighted.
And vaguely drifting am I borne,
I know not where it leads me;
I fix my gaze on it alone,
Of all beside it heedless.
But over-cautious prudery,
And coyness cold and cruel,
When most I need it, these, like clouds,
Its longed-for light refuse me.
Bright star, goal of my yearning eyes
As thou above me beamest,
When thou shalt hide thee from my sight
I’ll know that death is near me.
The singer had got so far when it struck Dorothea that it was not fair
to let Clara miss hearing such a sweet voice, so, shaking her from side
to side, she woke her, saying:
“Forgive me, child, for waking thee, but I do so that thou mayest have
the pleasure of hearing the best voice thou hast ever heard, perhaps,
in all thy life.”
Clara awoke quite drowsy, and not understanding at the moment what
Dorothea said, asked her what it was; she repeated what she had said,
and Clara became attentive at once; but she had hardly heard two lines,
as the singer continued, when a strange trembling seized her, as if she
were suffering from a severe attack of quartan ague, and throwing her
arms round Dorothea she said:
“Ah, dear lady of my soul and life! why did you wake me? The greatest
kindness fortune could do me now would be to close my eyes and ears so
as neither to see or hear that unhappy musician.”
“What art thou talking about, child?” said Dorothea. “Why, they say
this singer is a muleteer!”
“Nay, he is the lord of many places,” replied Clara, “and that one in
my heart which he holds so firmly shall never be taken from him, unless
he be willing to surrender it.”
Dorothea was amazed at the ardent language of the girl, for it seemed
to be far beyond such experience of life as her tender years gave any
promise of, so she said to her:
“You speak in such a way that I cannot understand you, Señora Clara;
explain yourself more clearly, and tell me what is this you are saying
about hearts and places and this musician whose voice has so moved you?
But do not tell me anything now; I do not want to lose the pleasure I
get from listening to the singer by giving my attention to your
transports, for I perceive he is beginning to sing a new strain and a
new air.”
“Let him, in Heaven’s name,” returned Clara; and not to hear him she
stopped both ears with her hands, at which Dorothea was again
surprised; but turning her attention to the song she found that it ran
in this fashion:
Sweet Hope, my stay,
That onward to the goal of thy intent
Dost make thy way,
Heedless of hindrance or impediment,
Have thou no fear
If at each step thou findest death is near.
No victory,
No joy of triumph doth the faint heart know;
Unblest is he
That a bold front to Fortune dares not show,
But soul and sense
In bondage yieldeth up to indolence.
If Love his wares
Do dearly sell, his right must be contest;
What gold compares
With that whereon his stamp he hath imprest?
And all men know
What costeth little that we rate but low.
Love resolute
Knows not the word “impossibility;”
And though my suit
Beset by endless obstacles I see,
Yet no despair
Shall hold me bound to earth while heaven is there.
Here the voice ceased and Clara’s sobs began afresh, all which excited
Dorothea’s curiosity to know what could be the cause of singing so
sweet and weeping so bitter, so she again asked her what it was she was
going to say before. On this Clara, afraid that Luscinda might overhear
her, winding her arms tightly round Dorothea put her mouth so close to
her ear that she could speak without fear of being heard by anyone
else, and said:
“This singer, dear señora, is the son of a gentleman of Aragon, lord of
two villages, who lives opposite my father’s house at Madrid; and
though my father had curtains to the windows of his house in winter,
and lattice-work in summer, in some way—I know not how—this gentleman,
who was pursuing his studies, saw me, whether in church or elsewhere, I
cannot tell, and, in fact, fell in love with me, and gave me to know it
from the windows of his house, with so many signs and tears that I was
forced to believe him, and even to love him, without knowing what it
was he wanted of me. One of the signs he used to make me was to link
one hand in the other, to show me he wished to marry me; and though I
should have been glad if that could be, being alone and motherless I
knew not whom to open my mind to, and so I left it as it was, showing
him no favour, except when my father, and his too, were from home, to
raise the curtain or the lattice a little and let him see me plainly,
at which he would show such delight that he seemed as if he were going
mad. Meanwhile the time for my father’s departure arrived, which he
became aware of, but not from me, for I had never been able to tell him
of it. He fell sick, of grief I believe, and so the day we were going
away I could not see him to take farewell of him, were it only with the
eyes. But after we had been two days on the road, on entering the
posada of a village a day’s journey from this, I saw him at the inn
door in the dress of a muleteer, and so well disguised, that if I did
not carry his image graven on my heart it would have been impossible
for me to recognise him. But I knew him, and I was surprised, and glad;
he watched me, unsuspected by my father, from whom he always hides
himself when he crosses my path on the road, or in the posadas where we
halt; and, as I know what he is, and reflect that for love of me he
makes this journey on foot in all this hardship, I am ready to die of
sorrow; and where he sets foot there I set my eyes. I know not with
what object he has come; or how he could have got away from his father,
who loves him beyond measure, having no other heir, and because he
deserves it, as you will perceive when you see him. And moreover, I can
tell you, all that he sings is out of his own head; for I have heard
them say he is a great scholar and poet; and what is more, every time I
see him or hear him sing I tremble all over, and am terrified lest my
father should recognise him and come to know of our loves. I have never
spoken a word to him in my life; and for all that I love him so that I
could not live without him. This, dear señora, is all I have to tell
you about the musician whose voice has delighted you so much; and from
it alone you might easily perceive he is no muleteer, but a lord of
hearts and towns, as I told you already.”
“Say no more, Doña Clara,” said Dorothea at this, at the same time
kissing her a thousand times over, “say no more, I tell you, but wait
till day comes; when I trust in God to arrange this affair of yours so
that it may have the happy ending such an innocent beginning deserves.”
“Ah, señora,” said Doña Clara, “what end can be hoped for when his
father is of such lofty position, and so wealthy, that he would think I
was not fit to be even a servant to his son, much less wife? And as to
marrying without the knowledge of my father, I would not do it for all
the world. I would not ask anything more than that this youth should go
back and leave me; perhaps with not seeing him, and the long distance
we shall have to travel, the pain I suffer now may become easier;
though I daresay the remedy I propose will do me very little good. I
don’t know how the devil this has come about, or how this love I have
for him got in; I such a young girl, and he such a mere boy; for I
verily believe we are both of an age, and I am not sixteen yet; for I
will be sixteen Michaelmas Day, next, my father says.”
Dorothea could not help laughing to hear how like a child Doña Clara
spoke. “Let us go to sleep now, señora,” said she, “for the little of
the night that I fancy is left to us: God will soon send us daylight,
and we will set all to rights, or it will go hard with me.”
With this they fell asleep, and deep silence reigned all through the
inn. The only persons not asleep were the landlady’s daughter and her
servant Maritornes, who, knowing the weak point of Don Quixote’s
humour, and that he was outside the inn mounting guard in armour and on
horseback, resolved, the pair of them, to play some trick upon him, or
at any rate to amuse themselves for a while by listening to his
nonsense. As it so happened there was not a window in the whole inn
that looked outwards except a hole in the wall of a straw-loft through
which they used to throw out the straw. At this hole the two
demi-damsels posted themselves, and observed Don Quixote on his horse,
leaning on his pike and from time to time sending forth such deep and
doleful sighs, that he seemed to pluck up his soul by the roots with
each of them; and they could hear him, too, saying in a soft, tender,
loving tone, “Oh my lady Dulcinea del Toboso, perfection of all beauty,
summit and crown of discretion, treasure house of grace, depositary of
virtue, and finally, ideal of all that is good, honourable, and
delectable in this world! What is thy grace doing now? Art thou,
perchance, mindful of thy enslaved knight who of his own free will hath
exposed himself to so great perils, and all to serve thee? Give me
tidings of her, oh luminary of the three faces! Perhaps at this moment,
envious of hers, thou art regarding her, either as she paces to and fro
some gallery of her sumptuous palaces, or leans over some balcony,
meditating how, whilst preserving her purity and greatness, she may
mitigate the tortures this wretched heart of mine endures for her sake,
what glory should recompense my sufferings, what repose my toil, and
lastly what death my life, and what reward my services? And thou, oh
sun, that art now doubtless harnessing thy steeds in haste to rise
betimes and come forth to see my lady; when thou seest her I entreat of
thee to salute her on my behalf: but have a care, when thou shalt see
her and salute her, that thou kiss not her face; for I shall be more
jealous of thee than thou wert of that light-footed ingrate that made
thee sweat and run so on the plains of Thessaly, or on the banks of the
Peneus (for I do not exactly recollect where it was thou didst run on
that occasion) in thy jealousy and love.”
Don Quixote had got so far in his pathetic speech when the landlady’s
daughter began to signal to him, saying, “Señor, come over here,
please.”
At these signals and voice Don Quixote turned his head and saw by the
light of the moon, which then was in its full splendour, that someone
was calling to him from the hole in the wall, which seemed to him to be
a window, and what is more, with a gilt grating, as rich castles, such
as he believed the inn to be, ought to have; and it immediately
suggested itself to his imagination that, as on the former occasion,
the fair damsel, the daughter of the lady of the castle, overcome by
love for him, was once more endeavouring to win his affections; and
with this idea, not to show himself discourteous, or ungrateful, he
turned Rocinante’s head and approached the hole, and as he perceived
the two wenches he said:
“I pity you, beauteous lady, that you should have directed your
thoughts of love to a quarter from whence it is impossible that such a
return can be made to you as is due to your great merit and gentle
birth, for which you must not blame this unhappy knight-errant whom
love renders incapable of submission to any other than her whom, the
first moment his eyes beheld her, he made absolute mistress of his
soul. Forgive me, noble lady, and retire to your apartment, and do not,
by any further declaration of your passion, compel me to show myself
more ungrateful; and if, of the love you bear me, you should find that
there is anything else in my power wherein I can gratify you, provided
it be not love itself, demand it of me; for I swear to you by that
sweet absent enemy of mine to grant it this instant, though it be that
you require of me a lock of Medusa’s hair, which was all snakes, or
even the very beams of the sun shut up in a vial.”
“My mistress wants nothing of that sort, sir knight,” said Maritornes
at this.
“What then, discreet dame, is it that your mistress wants?” replied Don
Quixote.
“Only one of your fair hands,” said Maritornes, “to enable her to vent
over it the great passion, passion which has brought her to this
loophole, so much to the risk of her honour; for if the lord her father
had heard her, the least slice he would cut off her would be her ear.”
“I should like to see that tried,” said Don Quixote; “but he had better
beware of that, if he does not want to meet the most disastrous end
that ever father in the world met for having laid hands on the tender
limbs of a love-stricken daughter.”
Maritornes felt sure that Don Quixote would present the hand she had
asked, and making up her mind what to do, she got down from the hole
and went into the stable, where she took the halter of Sancho Panza’s
ass, and in all haste returned to the hole, just as Don Quixote had
planted himself standing on Rocinante’s saddle in order to reach the
grated window where he supposed the lovelorn damsel to be; and giving
her his hand, he said, “Lady, take this hand, or rather this scourge of
the evil-doers of the earth; take, I say, this hand which no other hand
of woman has ever touched, not even hers who has complete possession of
my entire body. I present it to you, not that you may kiss it, but that
you may observe the contexture of the sinews, the close network of the
muscles, the breadth and capacity of the veins, whence you may infer
what must be the strength of the arm that has such a hand.”
“That we shall see presently,” said Maritornes, and making a running
knot on the halter, she passed it over his wrist and coming down from
the hole tied the other end very firmly to the bolt of the door of the
straw-loft.
Don Quixote, feeling the roughness of the rope on his wrist, exclaimed,
“Your grace seems to be grating rather than caressing my hand; treat it
not so harshly, for it is not to blame for the offence my resolution
has given you, nor is it just to wreak all your vengeance on so small a
part; remember that one who loves so well should not revenge herself so
cruelly.”
But there was nobody now to listen to these words of Don Quixote’s, for
as soon as Maritornes had tied him she and the other made off, ready to
die with laughing, leaving him fastened in such a way that it was
impossible for him to release himself.
He was, as has been said, standing on Rocinante, with his arm passed
through the hole and his wrist tied to the bolt of the door, and in
mighty fear and dread of being left hanging by the arm if Rocinante
were to stir one side or the other; so he did not dare to make the
least movement, although from the patience and imperturbable
disposition of Rocinante, he had good reason to expect that he would
stand without budging for a whole century. Finding himself fast, then,
and that the ladies had retired, he began to fancy that all this was
done by enchantment, as on the former occasion when in that same castle
that enchanted Moor of a carrier had belaboured him; and he cursed in
his heart his own want of sense and judgment in venturing to enter the
castle again, after having come off so badly the first time; it being a
settled point with knights-errant that when they have tried an
adventure, and have not succeeded in it, it is a sign that it is not
reserved for them but for others, and that therefore they need not try
it again. Nevertheless he pulled his arm to see if he could release
himself, but it had been made so fast that all his efforts were in
vain. It is true he pulled it gently lest Rocinante should move, but
try as he might to seat himself in the saddle, he had nothing for it
but to stand upright or pull his hand off. Then it was he wished for
the sword of Amadis, against which no enchantment whatever had any
power; then he cursed his ill fortune; then he magnified the loss the
world would sustain by his absence while he remained there enchanted,
for that he believed he was beyond all doubt; then he once more took to
thinking of his beloved Dulcinea del Toboso; then he called to his
worthy squire Sancho Panza, who, buried in sleep and stretched upon the
pack-saddle of his ass, was oblivious, at that moment, of the mother
that bore him; then he called upon the sages Lirgandeo and Alquife to
come to his aid; then he invoked his good friend Urganda to succour
him; and then, at last, morning found him in such a state of
desperation and perplexity that he was bellowing like a bull, for he
had no hope that day would bring any relief to his suffering, which he
believed would last for ever, inasmuch as he was enchanted; and of this
he was convinced by seeing that Rocinante never stirred, much or
little, and he felt persuaded that he and his horse were to remain in
this state, without eating or drinking or sleeping, until the malign
influence of the stars was overpast, or until some other more sage
enchanter should disenchant him.
But he was very much deceived in this conclusion, for daylight had
hardly begun to appear when there came up to the inn four men on
horseback, well equipped and accoutred, with firelocks across their
saddle-bows. They called out and knocked loudly at the gate of the inn,
which was still shut; on seeing which, Don Quixote, even there where he
was, did not forget to act as sentinel, and said in a loud and
imperious tone, “Knights, or squires, or whatever ye be, ye have no
right to knock at the gates of this castle; for it is plain enough that
they who are within are either asleep, or else are not in the habit of
throwing open the fortress until the sun’s rays are spread over the
whole surface of the earth. Withdraw to a distance, and wait till it is
broad daylight, and then we shall see whether it will be proper or not
to open to you.”
“What the devil fortress or castle is this,” said one, “to make us
stand on such ceremony? If you are the innkeeper bid them open to us;
we are travellers who only want to feed our horses and go on, for we
are in haste.”
“Do you think, gentlemen, that I look like an innkeeper?” said Don
Quixote.
“I don’t know what you look like,” replied the other; “but I know that
you are talking nonsense when you call this inn a castle.”
“A castle it is,” returned Don Quixote, “nay, more, one of the best in
this whole province, and it has within it people who have had the
sceptre in the hand and the crown on the head.”
“It would be better if it were the other way,” said the traveller, “the
sceptre on the head and the crown in the hand; but if so, maybe there
is within some company of players, with whom it is a common thing to
have those crowns and sceptres you speak of; for in such a small inn as
this, and where such silence is kept, I do not believe any people
entitled to crowns and sceptres can have taken up their quarters.”
“You know but little of the world,” returned Don Quixote, “since you
are ignorant of what commonly occurs in knight-errantry.”
But the comrades of the spokesman, growing weary of the dialogue with
Don Quixote, renewed their knocks with great vehemence, so much so that
the host, and not only he but everybody in the inn, awoke, and he got
up to ask who knocked. It happened at this moment that one of the
horses of the four who were seeking admittance went to smell Rocinante,
who melancholy, dejected, and with drooping ears stood motionless,
supporting his sorely stretched master; and as he was, after all,
flesh, though he looked as if he were made of wood, he could not help
giving way and in return smelling the one who had come to offer him
attentions. But he had hardly moved at all when Don Quixote lost his
footing; and slipping off the saddle, he would have come to the ground,
but for being suspended by the arm, which caused him such agony that he
believed either his wrist would be cut through or his arm torn off; and
he hung so near the ground that he could just touch it with his feet,
which was all the worse for him; for, finding how little was wanted to
enable him to plant his feet firmly, he struggled and stretched himself
as much as he could to gain a footing; just like those undergoing the
torture of the strappado, when they are fixed at “touch and no touch,”
who aggravate their own sufferings by their violent efforts to stretch
themselves, deceived by the hope which makes them fancy that with a
very little more they will reach the ground.
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CHAPTER XLIV.
IN WHICH ARE CONTINUED THE UNHEARD-OF ADVENTURES OF THE INN
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So loud, in fact, were the shouts of Don Quixote, that the landlord
opening the gate of the inn in all haste, came out in dismay, and ran
to see who was uttering such cries, and those who were outside joined
him. Maritornes, who had been by this time roused up by the same
outcry, suspecting what it was, ran to the loft and, without anyone
seeing her, untied the halter by which Don Quixote was suspended, and
down he came to the ground in the sight of the landlord and the
travellers, who approaching asked him what was the matter with him that
he shouted so. He without replying a word took the rope off his wrist,
and rising to his feet leaped upon Rocinante, braced his buckler on his
arm, put his lance in rest, and making a considerable circuit of the
plain came back at a half-gallop exclaiming:
“Whoever shall say that I have been enchanted with just cause, provided
my lady the Princess Micomicona grants me permission to do so, I give
him the lie, challenge him and defy him to single combat.”
The newly arrived travellers were amazed at the words of Don Quixote;
but the landlord removed their surprise by telling them who he was, and
not to mind him as he was out of his senses. They then asked the
landlord if by any chance a youth of about fifteen years of age had
come to that inn, one dressed like a muleteer, and of such and such an
appearance, describing that of Doña Clara’s lover. The landlord replied
that there were so many people in the inn he had not noticed the person
they were inquiring for; but one of them observing the coach in which
the Judge had come, said, “He is here no doubt, for this is the coach
he is following: let one of us stay at the gate, and the rest go in to
look for him; or indeed it would be as well if one of us went round the
inn, lest he should escape over the wall of the yard.” “So be it,” said
another; and while two of them went in, one remained at the gate and
the other made the circuit of the inn; observing all which, the
landlord was unable to conjecture for what reason they were taking all
these precautions, though he understood they were looking for the youth
whose description they had given him.
It was by this time broad daylight; and for that reason, as well as in
consequence of the noise Don Quixote had made, everybody was awake and
up, but particularly Doña Clara and Dorothea; for they had been able to
sleep but badly that night, the one from agitation at having her lover
so near her, the other from curiosity to see him. Don Quixote, when he
saw that not one of the four travellers took any notice of him or
replied to his challenge, was furious and ready to die with indignation
and wrath; and if he could have found in the ordinances of chivalry
that it was lawful for a knight-errant to undertake or engage in
another enterprise, when he had plighted his word and faith not to
involve himself in any until he had made an end of the one to which he
was pledged, he would have attacked the whole of them, and would have
made them return an answer in spite of themselves. But considering that
it would not become him, nor be right, to begin any new emprise until
he had established Micomicona in her kingdom, he was constrained to
hold his peace and wait quietly to see what would be the upshot of the
proceedings of those same travellers; one of whom found the youth they
were seeking lying asleep by the side of a muleteer, without a thought
of anyone coming in search of him, much less finding him.
The man laid hold of him by the arm, saying, “It becomes you well
indeed, Señor Don Luis, to be in the dress you wear, and well the bed
in which I find you agrees with the luxury in which your mother reared
you.”
The youth rubbed his sleepy eyes and stared for a while at him who held
him, but presently recognised him as one of his father’s servants, at
which he was so taken aback that for some time he could not find or
utter a word; while the servant went on to say, “There is nothing for
it now, Señor Don Luis, but to submit quietly and return home, unless
it is your wish that my lord, your father, should take his departure
for the other world, for nothing else can be the consequence of the
grief he is in at your absence.”
“But how did my father know that I had gone this road and in this
dress?” said Don Luis.
“It was a student to whom you confided your intentions,” answered the
servant, “that disclosed them, touched with pity at the distress he saw
your father suffer on missing you; he therefore despatched four of his
servants in quest of you, and here we all are at your service, better
pleased than you can imagine that we shall return so soon and be able
to restore you to those eyes that so yearn for you.”
“That shall be as I please, or as heaven orders,” returned Don Luis.
“What can you please or heaven order,” said the other, “except to agree
to go back? Anything else is impossible.”
All this conversation between the two was overheard by the muleteer at
whose side Don Luis lay, and rising, he went to report what had taken
place to Don Fernando, Cardenio, and the others, who had by this time
dressed themselves; and told them how the man had addressed the youth
as “Don,” and what words had passed, and how he wanted him to return to
his father, which the youth was unwilling to do. With this, and what
they already knew of the rare voice that heaven had bestowed upon him,
they all felt very anxious to know more particularly who he was, and
even to help him if it was attempted to employ force against him; so
they hastened to where he was still talking and arguing with his
servant. Dorothea at this instant came out of her room, followed by
Doña Clara all in a tremor; and calling Cardenio aside, she told him in
a few words the story of the musician and Doña Clara, and he at the
same time told her what had happened, how his father’s servants had
come in search of him; but in telling her so, he did not speak low
enough but that Doña Clara heard what he said, at which she was so much
agitated that had not Dorothea hastened to support her she would have
fallen to the ground. Cardenio then bade Dorothea return to her room,
as he would endeavour to make the whole matter right, and they did as
he desired. All the four who had come in quest of Don Luis had now come
into the inn and surrounded him, urging him to return and console his
father at once and without a moment’s delay. He replied that he could
not do so on any account until he had concluded some business in which
his life, honour, and heart were at stake. The servants pressed him,
saying that most certainly they would not return without him, and that
they would take him away whether he liked it or not.
“You shall not do that,” replied Don Luis, “unless you take me dead;
though however you take me, it will be without life.”
By this time most of those in the inn had been attracted by the
dispute, but particularly Cardenio, Don Fernando, his companions, the
Judge, the curate, the barber, and Don Quixote; for he now considered
there was no necessity for mounting guard over the castle any longer.
Cardenio being already acquainted with the young man’s story, asked the
men who wanted to take him away, what object they had in seeking to
carry off this youth against his will.
“Our object,” said one of the four, “is to save the life of his father,
who is in danger of losing it through this gentleman’s disappearance.”
Upon this Don Luis exclaimed, “There is no need to make my affairs
public here; I am free, and I will return if I please; and if not, none
of you shall compel me.”
“Reason will compel your worship,” said the man, “and if it has no
power over you, it has power over us, to make us do what we came for,
and what it is our duty to do.”
“Let us hear what the whole affair is about,” said the Judge at this;
but the man, who knew him as a neighbour of theirs, replied, “Do you
not know this gentleman, Señor Judge? He is the son of your neighbour,
who has run away from his father’s house in a dress so unbecoming his
rank, as your worship may perceive.”
The judge on this looked at him more carefully and recognised him, and
embracing him said, “What folly is this, Señor Don Luis, or what can
have been the cause that could have induced you to come here in this
way, and in this dress, which so ill becomes your condition?”
Tears came into the eyes of the young man, and he was unable to utter a
word in reply to the Judge, who told the four servants not to be
uneasy, for all would be satisfactorily settled; and then taking Don
Luis by the hand, he drew him aside and asked the reason of his having
come there.
But while he was questioning him they heard a loud outcry at the gate
of the inn, the cause of which was that two of the guests who had
passed the night there, seeing everybody busy about finding out what it
was the four men wanted, had conceived the idea of going off without
paying what they owed; but the landlord, who minded his own affairs
more than other people’s, caught them going out of the gate and
demanded his reckoning, abusing them for their dishonesty with such
language that he drove them to reply with their fists, and so they
began to lay on him in such a style that the poor man was forced to cry
out, and call for help. The landlady and her daughter could see no one
more free to give aid than Don Quixote, and to him the daughter said,
“Sir knight, by the virtue God has given you, help my poor father, for
two wicked men are beating him to a mummy.”
To which Don Quixote very deliberately and phlegmatically replied,
“Fair damsel, at the present moment your request is inopportune, for I
am debarred from involving myself in any adventure until I have brought
to a happy conclusion one to which my word has pledged me; but that
which I can do for you is what I will now mention: run and tell your
father to stand his ground as well as he can in this battle, and on no
account to allow himself to be vanquished, while I go and request
permission of the Princess Micomicona to enable me to succour him in
his distress; and if she grants it, rest assured I will relieve him
from it.”
“Sinner that I am,” exclaimed Maritornes, who stood by; “before you
have got your permission my master will be in the other world.”
“Give me leave, señora, to obtain the permission I speak of,” returned
Don Quixote; “and if I get it, it will matter very little if he is in
the other world; for I will rescue him thence in spite of all the same
world can do; or at any rate I will give you such a revenge over those
who shall have sent him there that you will be more than moderately
satisfied;” and without saying anything more he went and knelt before
Dorothea, requesting her Highness in knightly and errant phrase to be
pleased to grant him permission to aid and succour the castellan of
that castle, who now stood in grievous jeopardy. The princess granted
it graciously, and he at once, bracing his buckler on his arm and
drawing his sword, hastened to the inn-gate, where the two guests were
still handling the landlord roughly; but as soon as he reached the spot
he stopped short and stood still, though Maritornes and the landlady
asked him why he hesitated to help their master and husband.
“I hesitate,” said Don Quixote, “because it is not lawful for me to
draw sword against persons of squirely condition; but call my squire
Sancho to me; for this defence and vengeance are his affair and
business.”
Thus matters stood at the inn-gate, where there was a very lively
exchange of fisticuffs and punches, to the sore damage of the landlord
and to the wrath of Maritornes, the landlady, and her daughter, who
were furious when they saw the pusillanimity of Don Quixote, and the
hard treatment their master, husband and father was undergoing. But let
us leave him there; for he will surely find someone to help him, and if
not, let him suffer and hold his tongue who attempts more than his
strength allows him to do; and let us go back fifty paces to see what
Don Luis said in reply to the Judge whom we left questioning him
privately as to his reasons for coming on foot and so meanly dressed.
To which the youth, pressing his hand in a way that showed his heart
was troubled by some great sorrow, and shedding a flood of tears, made
answer:
“Señor, I have no more to tell you than that from the moment when,
through heaven’s will and our being near neighbours, I first saw Doña
Clara, your daughter and my lady, from that instant I made her the
mistress of my will, and if yours, my true lord and father, offers no
impediment, this very day she shall become my wife. For her I left my
father’s house, and for her I assumed this disguise, to follow her
whithersoever she may go, as the arrow seeks its mark or the sailor the
pole-star. She knows nothing more of my passion than what she may have
learned from having sometimes seen from a distance that my eyes were
filled with tears. You know already, señor, the wealth and noble birth
of my parents, and that I am their sole heir; if this be a sufficient
inducement for you to venture to make me completely happy, accept me at
once as your son; for if my father, influenced by other objects of his
own, should disapprove of this happiness I have sought for myself, time
has more power to alter and change things, than human will.”
With this the love-smitten youth was silent, while the Judge, after
hearing him, was astonished, perplexed, and surprised, as well at the
manner and intelligence with which Don Luis had confessed the secret of
his heart, as at the position in which he found himself, not knowing
what course to take in a matter so sudden and unexpected. All the
answer, therefore, he gave him was to bid him to make his mind easy for
the present, and arrange with his servants not to take him back that
day, so that there might be time to consider what was best for all
parties. Don Luis kissed his hands by force, nay, bathed them with his
tears, in a way that would have touched a heart of marble, not to say
that of the Judge, who, as a shrewd man, had already perceived how
advantageous the marriage would be to his daughter; though, were it
possible, he would have preferred that it should be brought about with
the consent of the father of Don Luis, who he knew looked for a title
for his son.
The guests had by this time made peace with the landlord, for, by
persuasion and Don Quixote’s fair words more than by threats, they had
paid him what he demanded, and the servants of Don Luis were waiting
for the end of the conversation with the Judge and their master’s
decision, when the devil, who never sleeps, contrived that the barber,
from whom Don Quixote had taken Mambrino’s helmet, and Sancho Panza the
trappings of his ass in exchange for those of his own, should at this
instant enter the inn; which said barber, as he led his ass to the
stable, observed Sancho Panza engaged in repairing something or other
belonging to the pack-saddle; and the moment he saw it he knew it, and
made bold to attack Sancho, exclaiming, “Ho, sir thief, I have caught
you! hand over my basin and my pack-saddle, and all my trappings that
you robbed me of.”
Sancho, finding himself so unexpectedly assailed, and hearing the abuse
poured upon him, seized the pack-saddle with one hand, and with the
other gave the barber a cuff that bathed his teeth in blood. The
barber, however, was not so ready to relinquish the prize he had made
in the pack-saddle; on the contrary, he raised such an outcry that
everyone in the inn came running to know what the noise and quarrel
meant. “Here, in the name of the king and justice!” he cried, “this
thief and highwayman wants to kill me for trying to recover my
property.”
“You lie,” said Sancho, “I am no highwayman; it was in fair war my
master Don Quixote won these spoils.”
Don Quixote was standing by at the time, highly pleased to see his
squire’s stoutness, both offensive and defensive, and from that time
forth he reckoned him a man of mettle, and in his heart resolved to dub
him a knight on the first opportunity that presented itself, feeling
sure that the order of chivalry would be fittingly bestowed upon him.
In the course of the altercation, among other things the barber said,
“Gentlemen, this pack-saddle is mine as surely as I owe God a death,
and I know it as well as if I had given birth to it, and here is my ass
in the stable who will not let me lie; only try it, and if it does not
fit him like a glove, call me a rascal; and what is more, the same day
I was robbed of this, they robbed me likewise of a new brass basin,
never yet handselled, that would fetch a crown any day.”
At this Don Quixote could not keep himself from answering; and
interposing between the two, and separating them, he placed the
pack-saddle on the ground, to lie there in sight until the truth was
established, and said, “Your worships may perceive clearly and plainly
the error under which this worthy squire lies when he calls a basin
which was, is, and shall be the helmet of Mambrino which I won from him
in fair war, and made myself master of by legitimate and lawful
possession. With the pack-saddle I do not concern myself; but I may
tell you on that head that my squire Sancho asked my permission to
strip off the caparison of this vanquished poltroon’s steed, and with
it adorn his own; I allowed him, and he took it; and as to its having
been changed from a caparison into a pack-saddle, I can give no
explanation except the usual one, that such transformations will take
place in adventures of chivalry. To confirm all which, run, Sancho my
son, and fetch hither the helmet which this good fellow calls a basin.”
“Egad, master,” said Sancho, “if we have no other proof of our case
than what your worship puts forward, Mambrino’s helmet is just as much
a basin as this good fellow’s caparison is a pack-saddle.”
“Do as I bid thee,” said Don Quixote; “it cannot be that everything in
this castle goes by enchantment.”
Sancho hastened to where the basin was, and brought it back with him,
and when Don Quixote saw it, he took hold of it and said:
“Your worships may see with what a face this squire can assert that
this is a basin and not the helmet I told you of; and I swear by the
order of chivalry I profess, that this helmet is the identical one I
took from him, without anything added to or taken from it.”
“There is no doubt of that,” said Sancho, “for from the time my master
won it until now he has only fought one battle in it, when he let loose
those unlucky men in chains; and if it had not been for this
basin-helmet he would not have come off over well that time, for there
was plenty of stone-throwing in that affair.”
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CHAPTER XLV.
IN WHICH THE DOUBTFUL QUESTION OF MAMBRINO’S HELMET AND THE PACK-SADDLE
IS FINALLY SETTLED, WITH OTHER ADVENTURES THAT OCCURRED IN TRUTH AND
EARNEST
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Full Size
“What do you think now, gentlemen,” said the barber, “of what these
gentles say, when they want to make out that this is a helmet?”
“And whoever says the contrary,” said Don Quixote, “I will let him know
he lies if he is a knight, and if he is a squire that he lies again a
thousand times.”
Our own barber, who was present at all this, and understood Don
Quixote’s humour so thoroughly, took it into his head to back up his
delusion and carry on the joke for the general amusement; so addressing
the other barber he said:
“Señor barber, or whatever you are, you must know that I belong to your
profession too, and have had a licence to practise for more than twenty
years, and I know the implements of the barber craft, every one of
them, perfectly well; and I was likewise a soldier for some time in the
days of my youth, and I know also what a helmet is, and a morion, and a
headpiece with a visor, and other things pertaining to soldiering, I
meant to say to soldiers’ arms; and I say—saving better opinions and
always with submission to sounder judgments—that this piece we have now
before us, which this worthy gentleman has in his hands, not only is no
barber’s basin, but is as far from being one as white is from black,
and truth from falsehood; I say, moreover, that this, although it is a
helmet, is not a complete helmet.”
“Certainly not,” said Don Quixote, “for half of it is wanting, that is
to say the beaver.”
“It is quite true,” said the curate, who saw the object of his friend
the barber; and Cardenio, Don Fernando and his companions agreed with
him, and even the Judge, if his thoughts had not been so full of Don
Luis’s affair, would have helped to carry on the joke; but he was so
taken up with the serious matters he had on his mind that he paid
little or no attention to these facetious proceedings.
“God bless me!” exclaimed their butt the barber at this; “is it
possible that such an honourable company can say that this is not a
basin but a helmet? Why, this is a thing that would astonish a whole
university, however wise it might be! That will do; if this basin is a
helmet, why, then the pack-saddle must be a horse’s caparison, as this
gentleman has said.”
“To me it looks like a pack-saddle,” said Don Quixote; “but I have
already said that with that question I do not concern myself.”
“As to whether it be pack-saddle or caparison,” said the curate, “it is
only for Señor Don Quixote to say; for in these matters of chivalry all
these gentlemen and I bow to his authority.”
“By God, gentlemen,” said Don Quixote, “so many strange things have
happened to me in this castle on the two occasions on which I have
sojourned in it, that I will not venture to assert anything positively
in reply to any question touching anything it contains; for it is my
belief that everything that goes on within it goes by enchantment. The
first time, an enchanted Moor that there is in it gave me sore trouble,
nor did Sancho fare well among certain followers of his; and last night
I was kept hanging by this arm for nearly two hours, without knowing
how or why I came by such a mishap. So that now, for me to come forward
to give an opinion in such a puzzling matter, would be to risk a rash
decision. As regards the assertion that this is a basin and not a
helmet I have already given an answer; but as to the question whether
this is a pack-saddle or a caparison I will not venture to give a
positive opinion, but will leave it to your worships’ better judgment.
Perhaps as you are not dubbed knights like myself, the enchantments of
this place have nothing to do with you, and your faculties are
unfettered, and you can see things in this castle as they really and
truly are, and not as they appear to me.”
“There can be no question,” said Don Fernando on this, “but that Señor
Don Quixote has spoken very wisely, and that with us rests the decision
of this matter; and that we may have surer ground to go on, I will take
the votes of the gentlemen in secret, and declare the result clearly
and fully.”
To those who were in on the secret of Don Quixote’s humour all this
afforded great amusement; but to those who knew nothing about it, it
seemed the greatest nonsense in the world, in particular to the four
servants of Don Luis, as well as to Don Luis himself, and to three
other travellers who had by chance come to the inn, and had the
appearance of officers of the Holy Brotherhood, as indeed they were;
but the one who above all was at his wits’ end was the barber whose
basin, there before his very eyes, had been turned into Mambrino’s
helmet, and whose pack-saddle he had no doubt whatever was about to
become a rich caparison for a horse. All laughed to see Don Fernando
going from one to another collecting the votes, and whispering to them
to give him their private opinion whether the treasure over which there
had been so much fighting was a pack-saddle or a caparison; but after
he had taken the votes of those who knew Don Quixote, he said aloud,
“The fact is, my good fellow, that I am tired collecting such a number
of opinions, for I find that there is not one of whom I ask what I
desire to know, who does not tell me that it is absurd to say that this
is the pack-saddle of an ass, and not the caparison of a horse, nay, of
a thoroughbred horse; so you must submit, for, in spite of you and your
ass, this is a caparison and no pack-saddle, and you have stated and
proved your case very badly.”
“May I never share heaven,” said the poor barber, “if your worships are
not all mistaken; and may my soul appear before God as that appears to
me a pack-saddle and not a caparison; but, ‘laws go,’—I say no more;
and indeed I am not drunk, for I am fasting, except it be from sin.”
The simple talk of the barber did not afford less amusement than the
absurdities of Don Quixote, who now observed:
“There is no more to be done now than for each to take what belongs to
him, and to whom God has given it, may St. Peter add his blessing.”
But said one of the four servants, “Unless, indeed, this is a
deliberate joke, I cannot bring myself to believe that men so
intelligent as those present are, or seem to be, can venture to declare
and assert that this is not a basin, and that not a pack-saddle; but as
I perceive that they do assert and declare it, I can only come to the
conclusion that there is some mystery in this persistence in what is so
opposed to the evidence of experience and truth itself; for I swear
by”—and here he rapped out a round oath—“all the people in the world
will not make me believe that this is not a barber’s basin and that a
jackass’s pack-saddle.”
“It might easily be a she-ass’s,” observed the curate.
“It is all the same,” said the servant; “that is not the point; but
whether it is or is not a pack-saddle, as your worships say.”
On hearing this one of the newly arrived officers of the Brotherhood,
who had been listening to the dispute and controversy, unable to
restrain his anger and impatience, exclaimed, “It is a pack-saddle as
sure as my father is my father, and whoever has said or will say
anything else must be drunk.”
“You lie like a rascally clown,” returned Don Quixote; and lifting his
pike, which he had never let out of his hand, he delivered such a blow
at his head that, had not the officer dodged it, it would have
stretched him at full length. The pike was shivered in pieces against
the ground, and the rest of the officers, seeing their comrade
assaulted, raised a shout, calling for help for the Holy Brotherhood.
The landlord, who was of the fraternity, ran at once to fetch his staff
of office and his sword, and ranged himself on the side of his
comrades; the servants of Don Luis clustered round him, lest he should
escape from them in the confusion; the barber, seeing the house turned
upside down, once more laid hold of his pack-saddle and Sancho did the
same; Don Quixote drew his sword and charged the officers; Don Luis
cried out to his servants to leave him alone and go and help Don
Quixote, and Cardenio and Don Fernando, who were supporting him; the
curate was shouting at the top of his voice, the landlady was
screaming, her daughter was wailing, Maritornes was weeping, Dorothea
was aghast, Luscinda terror-stricken, and Doña Clara in a faint. The
barber cudgelled Sancho, and Sancho pommelled the barber; Don Luis gave
one of his servants, who ventured to catch him by the arm to keep him
from escaping, a cuff that bathed his teeth in blood; the Judge took
his part; Don Fernando had got one of the officers down and was
belabouring him heartily; the landlord raised his voice again calling
for help for the Holy Brotherhood; so that the whole inn was nothing
but cries, shouts, shrieks, confusion, terror, dismay, mishaps,
sword-cuts, fisticuffs, cudgellings, kicks, and bloodshed; and in the
midst of all this chaos, complication, and general entanglement, Don
Quixote took it into his head that he had been plunged into the thick
of the discord of Agramante’s camp; and, in a voice that shook the inn
like thunder, he cried out:
“Hold all, let all sheathe their swords, let all be calm and attend to
me as they value their lives!”
All paused at his mighty voice, and he went on to say, “Did I not tell
you, sirs, that this castle was enchanted, and that a legion or so of
devils dwelt in it? In proof whereof I call upon you to behold with
your own eyes how the discord of Agramante’s camp has come hither, and
been transferred into the midst of us. See how they fight, there for
the sword, here for the horse, on that side for the eagle, on this for
the helmet; we are all fighting, and all at cross purposes. Come then,
you, Señor Judge, and you, señor curate; let the one represent King
Agramante and the other King Sobrino, and make peace among us; for by
God Almighty it is a sorry business that so many persons of quality as
we are should slay one another for such trifling cause.” The officers,
who did not understand Don Quixote’s mode of speaking, and found
themselves roughly handled by Don Fernando, Cardenio, and their
companions, were not to be appeased; the barber was, however, for both
his beard and his pack-saddle were the worse for the struggle; Sancho
like a good servant obeyed the slightest word of his master; while the
four servants of Don Luis kept quiet when they saw how little they
gained by not being so. The landlord alone insisted upon it that they
must punish the insolence of this madman, who at every turn raised a
disturbance in the inn; but at length the uproar was stilled for the
present; the pack-saddle remained a caparison till the day of judgment,
and the basin a helmet and the inn a castle in Don Quixote’s
imagination.
All having been now pacified and made friends by the persuasion of the
Judge and the curate, the servants of Don Luis began again to urge him
to return with them at once; and while he was discussing the matter
with them, the Judge took counsel with Don Fernando, Cardenio, and the
curate as to what he ought to do in the case, telling them how it
stood, and what Don Luis had said to him. It was agreed at length that
Don Fernando should tell the servants of Don Luis who he was, and that
it was his desire that Don Luis should accompany him to Andalusia,
where he would receive from the marquis his brother the welcome his
quality entitled him to; for, otherwise, it was easy to see from the
determination of Don Luis that he would not return to his father at
present, though they tore him to pieces. On learning the rank of Don
Fernando and the resolution of Don Luis the four then settled it
between themselves that three of them should return to tell his father
how matters stood, and that the other should remain to wait upon Don
Luis, and not leave him until they came back for him, or his father’s
orders were known. Thus by the authority of Agramante and the wisdom of
King Sobrino all this complication of disputes was arranged; but the
enemy of concord and hater of peace, feeling himself slighted and made
a fool of, and seeing how little he had gained after having involved
them all in such an elaborate entanglement, resolved to try his hand
once more by stirring up fresh quarrels and disturbances.
It came about in this wise: the officers were pacified on learning the
rank of those with whom they had been engaged, and withdrew from the
contest, considering that whatever the result might be they were likely
to get the worst of the battle; but one of them, the one who had been
thrashed and kicked by Don Fernando, recollected that among some
warrants he carried for the arrest of certain delinquents, he had one
against Don Quixote, whom the Holy Brotherhood had ordered to be
arrested for setting the galley slaves free, as Sancho had, with very
good reason, apprehended. Suspecting how it was, then, he wished to
satisfy himself as to whether Don Quixote’s features corresponded; and
taking a parchment out of his bosom he lit upon what he was in search
of, and setting himself to read it deliberately, for he was not a quick
reader, as he made out each word he fixed his eyes on Don Quixote, and
went on comparing the description in the warrant with his face, and
discovered that beyond all doubt he was the person described in it. As
soon as he had satisfied himself, folding up the parchment, he took the
warrant in his left hand and with his right seized Don Quixote by the
collar so tightly that he did not allow him to breathe, and shouted
aloud, “Help for the Holy Brotherhood! and that you may see I demand it
in earnest, read this warrant which says this highwayman is to be
arrested.”
The curate took the warrant and saw that what the officer said was
true, and that it agreed with Don Quixote’s appearance, who, on his
part, when he found himself roughly handled by this rascally clown,
worked up to the highest pitch of wrath, and all his joints cracking
with rage, with both hands seized the officer by the throat with all
his might, so that had he not been helped by his comrades he would have
yielded up his life ere Don Quixote released his hold. The landlord,
who had perforce to support his brother officers, ran at once to aid
them. The landlady, when she saw her husband engaged in a fresh
quarrel, lifted up her voice afresh, and its note was immediately
caught up by Maritornes and her daughter, calling upon heaven and all
present for help; and Sancho, seeing what was going on, exclaimed, “By
the Lord, it is quite true what my master says about the enchantments
of this castle, for it is impossible to live an hour in peace in it!”
Don Fernando parted the officer and Don Quixote, and to their mutual
contentment made them relax the grip by which they held, the one the
coat collar, the other the throat of his adversary; for all this,
however, the officers did not cease to demand their prisoner and call
on them to help, and deliver him over bound into their power, as was
required for the service of the King and of the Holy Brotherhood, on
whose behalf they again demanded aid and assistance to effect the
capture of this robber and footpad of the highways.
Don Quixote smiled when he heard these words, and said very calmly,
“Come now, base, ill-born brood; call ye it highway robbery to give
freedom to those in bondage, to release the captives, to succour the
miserable, to raise up the fallen, to relieve the needy? Infamous
beings, who by your vile grovelling intellects deserve that heaven
should not make known to you the virtue that lies in knight-errantry,
or show you the sin and ignorance in which ye lie when ye refuse to
respect the shadow, not to say the presence, of any knight-errant! Come
now; band, not of officers, but of thieves; footpads with the licence
of the Holy Brotherhood; tell me who was the ignoramus who signed a
warrant of arrest against such a knight as I am? Who was he that did
not know that knights-errant are independent of all jurisdictions, that
their law is their sword, their charter their prowess, and their edicts
their will? Who, I say again, was the fool that knows not that there
are no letters patent of nobility that confer such privileges or
exemptions as a knight-errant acquires the day he is dubbed a knight,
and devotes himself to the arduous calling of chivalry? What
knight-errant ever paid poll-tax, duty, queen’s pin-money, king’s dues,
toll or ferry? What tailor ever took payment of him for making his
clothes? What castellan that received him in his castle ever made him
pay his shot? What king did not seat him at his table? What damsel was
not enamoured of him and did not yield herself up wholly to his will
and pleasure? And, lastly, what knight-errant has there been, is there,
or will there ever be in the world, not bold enough to give,
single-handed, four hundred cudgellings to four hundred officers of the
Holy Brotherhood if they come in his way?”
CHAPTER XLVI.
OF THE END OF THE NOTABLE ADVENTURE OF THE OFFICERS OF THE HOLY
BROTHERHOOD; AND OF THE GREAT FEROCITY OF OUR WORTHY KNIGHT, DON
QUIXOTE
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While Don Quixote was talking in this strain, the curate was
endeavouring to persuade the officers that he was out of his senses, as
they might perceive by his deeds and his words, and that they need not
press the matter any further, for even if they arrested him and carried
him off, they would have to release him by-and-by as a madman; to which
the holder of the warrant replied that he had nothing to do with
inquiring into Don Quixote’s madness, but only to execute his
superior’s orders, and that once taken they might let him go three
hundred times if they liked.
“For all that,” said the curate, “you must not take him away this time,
nor will he, it is my opinion, let himself be taken away.”
In short, the curate used such arguments, and Don Quixote did such mad
things, that the officers would have been more mad than he was if they
had not perceived his want of wits, and so they thought it best to
allow themselves to be pacified, and even to act as peacemakers between
the barber and Sancho Panza, who still continued their altercation with
much bitterness. In the end they, as officers of justice, settled the
question by arbitration in such a manner that both sides were, if not
perfectly contented, at least to some extent satisfied; for they
changed the pack-saddles, but not the girths or head-stalls; and as to
Mambrino’s helmet, the curate, under the rose and without Don Quixote’s
knowing it, paid eight reals for the basin, and the barber executed a
full receipt and engagement to make no further demand then or
thenceforth for evermore, amen. These two disputes, which were the most
important and gravest, being settled, it only remained for the servants
of Don Luis to consent that three of them should return while one was
left to accompany him whither Don Fernando desired to take him; and
good luck and better fortune, having already begun to solve
difficulties and remove obstructions in favour of the lovers and
warriors of the inn, were pleased to persevere and bring everything to
a happy issue; for the servants agreed to do as Don Luis wished; which
gave Doña Clara such happiness that no one could have looked into her
face just then without seeing the joy of her heart. Zoraida, though she
did not fully comprehend all she saw, was grave or gay without knowing
why, as she watched and studied the various countenances, but
particularly her Spaniard’s, whom she followed with her eyes and clung
to with her soul. The gift and compensation which the curate gave the
barber had not escaped the landlord’s notice, and he demanded Don
Quixote’s reckoning, together with the amount of the damage to his
wine-skins, and the loss of his wine, swearing that neither Rocinante
nor Sancho’s ass should leave the inn until he had been paid to the
very last farthing. The curate settled all amicably, and Don Fernando
paid; though the Judge had also very readily offered to pay the score;
and all became so peaceful and quiet that the inn no longer reminded
one of the discord of Agramante’s camp, as Don Quixote said, but of the
peace and tranquillity of the days of Octavianus: for all which it was
the universal opinion that their thanks were due to the great zeal and
eloquence of the curate, and to the unexampled generosity of Don
Fernando.
Finding himself now clear and quit of all quarrels, his squire’s as
well as his own, Don Quixote considered that it would be advisable to
continue the journey he had begun, and bring to a close that great
adventure for which he had been called and chosen; and with this high
resolve he went and knelt before Dorothea, who, however, would not
allow him to utter a word until he had risen; so to obey her he rose,
and said, “It is a common proverb, fair lady, that ‘diligence is the
mother of good fortune,’ and experience has often shown in important
affairs that the earnestness of the negotiator brings the doubtful case
to a successful termination; but in nothing does this truth show itself
more plainly than in war, where quickness and activity forestall the
devices of the enemy, and win the victory before the foe has time to
defend himself. All this I say, exalted and esteemed lady, because it
seems to me that for us to remain any longer in this castle now is
useless, and may be injurious to us in a way that we shall find out
some day; for who knows but that your enemy the giant may have learned
by means of secret and diligent spies that I am going to destroy him,
and if the opportunity be given him he may seize it to fortify himself
in some impregnable castle or stronghold, against which all my efforts
and the might of my indefatigable arm may avail but little? Therefore,
lady, let us, as I say, forestall his schemes by our activity, and let
us depart at once in quest of fair fortune; for your highness is only
kept from enjoying it as fully as you could desire by my delay in
encountering your adversary.”
Don Quixote held his peace and said no more, calmly awaiting the reply
of the beauteous princess, who, with commanding dignity and in a style
adapted to Don Quixote’s own, replied to him in these words, “I give
you thanks, sir knight, for the eagerness you, like a good knight to
whom it is a natural obligation to succour the orphan and the needy,
display to afford me aid in my sore trouble; and heaven grant that your
wishes and mine may be realised, so that you may see that there are
women in this world capable of gratitude; as to my departure, let it be
forthwith, for I have no will but yours; dispose of me entirely in
accordance with your good pleasure; for she who has once entrusted to
you the defence of her person, and placed in your hands the recovery of
her dominions, must not think of offering opposition to that which your
wisdom may ordain.”
“On, then, in God’s name,” said Don Quixote; “for, when a lady humbles
herself to me, I will not lose the opportunity of raising her up and
placing her on the throne of her ancestors. Let us depart at once, for
the common saying that in delay there is danger, lends spurs to my
eagerness to take the road; and as neither heaven has created nor hell
seen any that can daunt or intimidate me, saddle Rocinante, Sancho, and
get ready thy ass and the queen’s palfrey, and let us take leave of the
castellan and these gentlemen, and go hence this very instant.”
Sancho, who was standing by all the time, said, shaking his head, “Ah!
master, master, there is more mischief in the village than one hears
of, begging all good bodies’ pardon.”
“What mischief can there be in any village, or in all the cities of the
world, you booby, that can hurt my reputation?” said Don Quixote.
“If your worship is angry,” replied Sancho, “I will hold my tongue and
leave unsaid what as a good squire I am bound to say, and what a good
servant should tell his master.”
“Say what thou wilt,” returned Don Quixote, “provided thy words be not
meant to work upon my fears; for thou, if thou fearest, art behaving
like thyself; but I like myself, in not fearing.”
“It is nothing of the sort, as I am a sinner before God,” said Sancho,
“but that I take it to be sure and certain that this lady, who calls
herself queen of the great kingdom of Micomicon, is no more so than my
mother; for, if she was what she says, she would not go rubbing noses
with one that is here every instant and behind every door.”
Dorothea turned red at Sancho’s words, for the truth was that her
husband Don Fernando had now and then, when the others were not
looking, gathered from her lips some of the reward his love had earned,
and Sancho seeing this had considered that such freedom was more like a
courtesan than a queen of a great kingdom; she, however, being unable
or not caring to answer him, allowed him to proceed, and he continued,
“This I say, señor, because, if after we have travelled roads and
highways, and passed bad nights and worse days, one who is now enjoying
himself in this inn is to reap the fruit of our labours, there is no
need for me to be in a hurry to saddle Rocinante, put the pad on the
ass, or get ready the palfrey; for it will be better for us to stay
quiet, and let every jade mind her spinning, and let us go to dinner.”
Good God, what was the indignation of Don Quixote when he heard the
audacious words of his squire! So great was it, that in a voice
inarticulate with rage, with a stammering tongue, and eyes that flashed
living fire, he exclaimed, “Rascally clown, boorish, insolent, and
ignorant, ill-spoken, foul-mouthed, impudent backbiter and slanderer!
Hast thou dared to utter such words in my presence and in that of these
illustrious ladies? Hast thou dared to harbour such gross and shameless
thoughts in thy muddled imagination? Begone from my presence, thou born
monster, storehouse of lies, hoard of untruths, garner of knaveries,
inventor of scandals, publisher of absurdities, enemy of the respect
due to royal personages! Begone, show thyself no more before me under
pain of my wrath;” and so saying he knitted his brows, puffed out his
cheeks, gazed around him, and stamped on the ground violently with his
right foot, showing in every way the rage that was pent up in his
heart; and at his words and furious gestures Sancho was so scared and
terrified that he would have been glad if the earth had opened that
instant and swallowed him, and his only thought was to turn round and
make his escape from the angry presence of his master.
But the ready-witted Dorothea, who by this time so well understood Don
Quixote’s humour, said, to mollify his wrath, “Be not irritated at the
absurdities your good squire has uttered, Sir Knight of the Rueful
Countenance, for perhaps he did not utter them without cause, and from
his good sense and Christian conscience it is not likely that he would
bear false witness against anyone. We may therefore believe, without
any hesitation, that since, as you say, sir knight, everything in this
castle goes and is brought about by means of enchantment, Sancho, I
say, may possibly have seen, through this diabolical medium, what he
says he saw so much to the detriment of my modesty.”
“I swear by God Omnipotent,” exclaimed Don Quixote at this, “your
highness has hit the point; and that some vile illusion must have come
before this sinner of a Sancho, that made him see what it would have
been impossible to see by any other means than enchantments; for I know
well enough, from the poor fellow’s goodness and harmlessness, that he
is incapable of bearing false witness against anybody.”
“True, no doubt,” said Don Fernando, “for which reason, Señor Don
Quixote, you ought to forgive him and restore him to the bosom of your
favour, _sicut erat in principio_, before illusions of this sort had
taken away his senses.”
Don Quixote said he was ready to pardon him, and the curate went for
Sancho, who came in very humbly, and falling on his knees begged for
the hand of his master, who having presented it to him and allowed him
to kiss it, gave him his blessing and said, “Now, Sancho my son, thou
wilt be convinced of the truth of what I have many a time told thee,
that everything in this castle is done by means of enchantment.”
“So it is, I believe,” said Sancho, “except the affair of the blanket,
which came to pass in reality by ordinary means.”
“Believe it not,” said Don Quixote, “for had it been so, I would have
avenged thee that instant, or even now; but neither then nor now could
I, nor have I seen anyone upon whom to avenge thy wrong.”
They were all eager to know what the affair of the blanket was, and the
landlord gave them a minute account of Sancho’s flights, at which they
laughed not a little, and at which Sancho would have been no less out
of countenance had not his master once more assured him it was all
enchantment. For all that his simplicity never reached so high a pitch
that he could persuade himself it was not the plain and simple truth,
without any deception whatever about it, that he had been blanketed by
beings of flesh and blood, and not by visionary and imaginary phantoms,
as his master believed and protested.
The illustrious company had now been two days in the inn; and as it
seemed to them time to depart, they devised a plan so that, without
giving Dorothea and Don Fernando the trouble of going back with Don
Quixote to his village under pretence of restoring Queen Micomicona,
the curate and the barber might carry him away with them as they
proposed, and the curate be able to take his madness in hand at home;
and in pursuance of their plan they arranged with the owner of an
oxcart who happened to be passing that way to carry him after this
fashion. They constructed a kind of cage with wooden bars, large enough
to hold Don Quixote comfortably; and then Don Fernando and his
companions, the servants of Don Luis, and the officers of the
Brotherhood, together with the landlord, by the directions and advice
of the curate, covered their faces and disguised themselves, some in
one way, some in another, so as to appear to Don Quixote quite
different from the persons he had seen in the castle. This done, in
profound silence they entered the room where he was asleep, taking his
rest after the past frays, and advancing to where he was sleeping
tranquilly, not dreaming of anything of the kind happening, they seized
him firmly and bound him fast hand and foot, so that, when he awoke
startled, he was unable to move, and could only marvel and wonder at
the strange figures he saw before him; upon which he at once gave way
to the idea which his crazed fancy invariably conjured up before him,
and took it into his head that all these shapes were phantoms of the
enchanted castle, and that he himself was unquestionably enchanted as
he could neither move nor help himself; precisely what the curate, the
concoctor of the scheme, expected would happen. Of all that were there
Sancho was the only one who was at once in his senses and in his own
proper character, and he, though he was within very little of sharing
his master’s infirmity, did not fail to perceive who all these
disguised figures were; but he did not dare to open his lips until he
saw what came of this assault and capture of his master; nor did the
latter utter a word, waiting to the upshot of his mishap; which was
that bringing in the cage, they shut him up in it and nailed the bars
so firmly that they could not be easily burst open.
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They then took him on their shoulders, and as they passed out of the
room an awful voice—as much so as the barber, not he of the pack-saddle
but the other, was able to make it—was heard to say, “O Knight of the
Rueful Countenance, let not this captivity in which thou art placed
afflict thee, for this must needs be, for the more speedy
accomplishment of the adventure in which thy great heart has engaged
thee; the which shall be accomplished when the raging Manchegan lion
and the white Tobosan dove shall be linked together, having first
humbled their haughty necks to the gentle yoke of matrimony. And from
this marvellous union shall come forth to the light of the world brave
whelps that shall rival the ravening claws of their valiant father; and
this shall come to pass ere the pursuer of the flying nymph shall in
his swift natural course have twice visited the starry signs. And thou,
O most noble and obedient squire that ever bore sword at side, beard on
face, or nose to smell with, be not dismayed or grieved to see the
flower of knight-errantry carried away thus before thy very eyes; for
soon, if it so please the Framer of the universe, thou shalt see
thyself exalted to such a height that thou shalt not know thyself, and
the promises which thy good master has made thee shall not prove false;
and I assure thee, on the authority of the sage Mentironiana, that thy
wages shall be paid thee, as thou shalt see in due season. Follow then
the footsteps of the valiant enchanted knight, for it is expedient that
thou shouldst go to the destination assigned to both of you; and as it
is not permitted to me to say more, God be with thee; for I return to
that place I wot of;” and as he brought the prophecy to a close he
raised his voice to a high pitch, and then lowered it to such a soft
tone, that even those who knew it was all a joke were almost inclined
to take what they heard seriously.
Don Quixote was comforted by the prophecy he heard, for he at once
comprehended its meaning perfectly, and perceived it was promised to
him that he should see himself united in holy and lawful matrimony with
his beloved Dulcinea del Toboso, from whose blessed womb should proceed
the whelps, his sons, to the eternal glory of La Mancha; and being
thoroughly and firmly persuaded of this, he lifted up his voice, and
with a deep sigh exclaimed, “Oh thou, whoever thou art, who hast
foretold me so much good, I implore of thee that on my part thou
entreat that sage enchanter who takes charge of my interests, that he
leave me not to perish in this captivity in which they are now carrying
me away, ere I see fulfilled promises so joyful and incomparable as
those which have been now made me; for, let this but come to pass, and
I shall glory in the pains of my prison, find comfort in these chains
wherewith they bind me, and regard this bed whereon they stretch me,
not as a hard battle-field, but as a soft and happy nuptial couch; and
touching the consolation of Sancho Panza, my squire, I rely upon his
goodness and rectitude that he will not desert me in good or evil
fortune; for if, by his ill luck or mine, it may not happen to be in my
power to give him the island I have promised, or any equivalent for it,
at least his wages shall not be lost; for in my will, which is already
made, I have declared the sum that shall be paid to him, measured, not
by his many faithful services, but by the means at my disposal.”
Sancho bowed his head very respectfully and kissed both his hands, for,
being tied together, he could not kiss one; and then the apparitions
lifted the cage upon their shoulders and fixed it upon the ox-cart.
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CHAPTER XLVII.
OF THE STRANGE MANNER IN WHICH DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA WAS CARRIED
AWAY ENCHANTED, TOGETHER WITH OTHER REMARKABLE INCIDENTS
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When Don Quixote saw himself caged and hoisted on the cart in this way,
he said, “Many grave histories of knights-errant have I read; but never
yet have I read, seen, or heard of their carrying off enchanted
knights-errant in this fashion, or at the slow pace that these lazy,
sluggish animals promise; for they always take them away through the
air with marvellous swiftness, enveloped in a dark thick cloud, or on a
chariot of fire, or it may be on some hippogriff or other beast of the
kind; but to carry me off like this on an ox-cart! By God, it puzzles
me! But perhaps the chivalry and enchantments of our day take a
different course from that of those in days gone by; and it may be,
too, that as I am a new knight in the world, and the first to revive
the already forgotten calling of knight-adventurers, they may have
newly invented other kinds of enchantments and other modes of carrying
off the enchanted. What thinkest thou of the matter, Sancho my son?”
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“I don’t know what to think,” answered Sancho, “not being as well read
as your worship in errant writings; but for all that I venture to say
and swear that these apparitions that are about us are not quite
catholic.”
“Catholic!” said Don Quixote. “Father of me! how can they be Catholic
when they are all devils that have taken fantastic shapes to come and
do this, and bring me to this condition? And if thou wouldst prove it,
touch them, and feel them, and thou wilt find they have only bodies of
air, and no consistency except in appearance.”
“By God, master,” returned Sancho, “I have touched them already; and
that devil, that goes about there so busily, has firm flesh, and
another property very different from what I have heard say devils have,
for by all accounts they all smell of brimstone and other bad smells;
but this one smells of amber half a league off.” Sancho was here
speaking of Don Fernando, who, like a gentleman of his rank, was very
likely perfumed as Sancho said.
“Marvel not at that, Sancho my friend,” said Don Quixote; “for let me
tell thee devils are crafty; and even if they do carry odours about
with them, they themselves have no smell, because they are spirits; or,
if they have any smell, they cannot smell of anything sweet, but of
something foul and fetid; and the reason is that as they carry hell
with them wherever they go, and can get no ease whatever from their
torments, and as a sweet smell is a thing that gives pleasure and
enjoyment, it is impossible that they can smell sweet; if, then, this
devil thou speakest of seems to thee to smell of amber, either thou art
deceiving thyself, or he wants to deceive thee by making thee fancy he
is not a devil.”
Such was the conversation that passed between master and man; and Don
Fernando and Cardenio, apprehensive of Sancho’s making a complete
discovery of their scheme, towards which he had already gone some way,
resolved to hasten their departure, and calling the landlord aside,
they directed him to saddle Rocinante and put the pack-saddle on
Sancho’s ass, which he did with great alacrity. In the meantime the
curate had made an arrangement with the officers that they should bear
them company as far as his village, he paying them so much a day.
Cardenio hung the buckler on one side of the bow of Rocinante’s saddle
and the basin on the other, and by signs commanded Sancho to mount his
ass and take Rocinante’s bridle, and at each side of the cart he placed
two officers with their muskets; but before the cart was put in motion,
out came the landlady and her daughter and Maritornes to bid Don
Quixote farewell, pretending to weep with grief at his misfortune; and
to them Don Quixote said:
“Weep not, good ladies, for all these mishaps are the lot of those who
follow the profession I profess; and if these reverses did not befall
me I should not esteem myself a famous knight-errant; for such things
never happen to knights of little renown and fame, because nobody in
the world thinks about them; to valiant knights they do, for these are
envied for their virtue and valour by many princes and other knights
who compass the destruction of the worthy by base means. Nevertheless,
virtue is of herself so mighty, that, in spite of all the magic that
Zoroaster its first inventor knew, she will come victorious out of
every trial, and shed her light upon the earth as the sun does upon the
heavens. Forgive me, fair ladies, if, through inadvertence, I have in
aught offended you; for intentionally and wittingly I have never done
so to any; and pray to God that he deliver me from this captivity to
which some malevolent enchanter has consigned me; and should I find
myself released therefrom, the favours that ye have bestowed upon me in
this castle shall be held in memory by me, that I may acknowledge,
recognise, and requite them as they deserve.”
While this was passing between the ladies of the castle and Don
Quixote, the curate and the barber bade farewell to Don Fernando and
his companions, to the captain, his brother, and the ladies, now all
made happy, and in particular to Dorothea and Luscinda. They all
embraced one another, and promised to let each other know how things
went with them, and Don Fernando directed the curate where to write to
him, to tell him what became of Don Quixote, assuring him that there
was nothing that could give him more pleasure than to hear of it, and
that he too, on his part, would send him word of everything he thought
he would like to know, about his marriage, Zoraida’s baptism, Don
Luis’s affair, and Luscinda’s return to her home. The curate promised
to comply with his request carefully, and they embraced once more, and
renewed their promises.
The landlord approached the curate and handed him some papers, saying
he had discovered them in the lining of the valise in which the novel
of “The Ill-advised Curiosity” had been found, and that he might take
them all away with him as their owner had not since returned; for, as
he could not read, he did not want them himself. The curate thanked
him, and opening them he saw at the beginning of the manuscript the
words, “Novel of Rinconete and Cortadillo,” by which he perceived that
it was a novel, and as that of “The Ill-advised Curiosity” had been
good he concluded this would be so too, as they were both probably by
the same author; so he kept it, intending to read it when he had an
opportunity. He then mounted and his friend the barber did the same,
both masked, so as not to be recognised by Don Quixote, and set out
following in the rear of the cart. The order of march was this: first
went the cart with the owner leading it; at each side of it marched the
officers of the Brotherhood, as has been said, with their muskets; then
followed Sancho Panza on his ass, leading Rocinante by the bridle; and
behind all came the curate and the barber on their mighty mules, with
faces covered, as aforesaid, and a grave and serious air, measuring
their pace to suit the slow steps of the oxen. Don Quixote was seated
in the cage, with his hands tied and his feet stretched out, leaning
against the bars as silent and as patient as if he were a stone statue
and not a man of flesh. Thus slowly and silently they made, it might
be, two leagues, until they reached a valley which the carter thought a
convenient place for resting and feeding his oxen, and he said so to
the curate, but the barber was of opinion that they ought to push on a
little farther, as at the other side of a hill which appeared close by
he knew there was a valley that had more grass and much better than the
one where they proposed to halt; and his advice was taken and they
continued their journey.
Just at that moment the curate, looking back, saw coming on behind them
six or seven mounted men, well found and equipped, who soon overtook
them, for they were travelling, not at the sluggish, deliberate pace of
oxen, but like men who rode canons’ mules, and in haste to take their
noontide rest as soon as possible at the inn which was in sight not a
league off. The quick travellers came up with the slow, and courteous
salutations were exchanged; and one of the new comers, who was, in
fact, a canon of Toledo and master of the others who accompanied him,
observing the regular order of the procession, the cart, the officers,
Sancho, Rocinante, the curate and the barber, and above all Don Quixote
caged and confined, could not help asking what was the meaning of
carrying the man in that fashion; though, from the badges of the
officers, he already concluded that he must be some desperate
highwayman or other malefactor whose punishment fell within the
jurisdiction of the Holy Brotherhood. One of the officers to whom he
had put the question, replied, “Let the gentleman himself tell you the
meaning of his going this way, señor, for we do not know.”
Don Quixote overheard the conversation and said, “Haply, gentlemen, you
are versed and learned in matters of errant chivalry? Because if you
are I will tell you my misfortunes; if not, there is no good in my
giving myself the trouble of relating them;” but here the curate and
the barber, seeing that the travellers were engaged in conversation
with Don Quixote, came forward, in order to answer in such a way as to
save their stratagem from being discovered.
The canon, replying to Don Quixote, said, “In truth, brother, I know
more about books of chivalry than I do about Villalpando’s elements of
logic; so if that be all, you may safely tell me what you please.”
“In God’s name, then, señor,” replied Don Quixote; “if that be so, I
would have you know that I am held enchanted in this cage by the envy
and fraud of wicked enchanters; for virtue is more persecuted by the
wicked than loved by the good. I am a knight-errant, and not one of
those whose names Fame has never thought of immortalising in her
record, but of those who, in defiance and in spite of envy itself, and
all the magicians that Persia, or Brahmans that India, or Gymnosophists
that Ethiopia ever produced, will place their names in the temple of
immortality, to serve as examples and patterns for ages to come,
whereby knights-errant may see the footsteps in which they must tread
if they would attain the summit and crowning point of honour in arms.”
“What Señor Don Quixote of La Mancha says,” observed the curate, “is
the truth; for he goes enchanted in this cart, not from any fault or
sins of his, but because of the malevolence of those to whom virtue is
odious and valour hateful. This, señor, is the Knight of the Rueful
Countenance, if you have ever heard him named, whose valiant
achievements and mighty deeds shall be written on lasting brass and
imperishable marble, notwithstanding all the efforts of envy to obscure
them and malice to hide them.”
When the canon heard both the prisoner and the man who was at liberty
talk in such a strain he was ready to cross himself in his
astonishment, and could not make out what had befallen him; and all his
attendants were in the same state of amazement.
At this point Sancho Panza, who had drawn near to hear the
conversation, said, in order to make everything plain, “Well, sirs, you
may like or dislike what I am going to say, but the fact of the matter
is, my master, Don Quixote, is just as much enchanted as my mother. He
is in his full senses, he eats and he drinks, and he has his calls like
other men and as he had yesterday, before they caged him. And if that’s
the case, what do they mean by wanting me to believe that he is
enchanted? For I have heard many a one say that enchanted people
neither eat, nor sleep, nor talk; and my master, if you don’t stop him,
will talk more than thirty lawyers.” Then turning to the curate he
exclaimed, “Ah, señor curate, señor curate! do you think I don’t know
you? Do you think I don’t guess and see the drift of these new
enchantments? Well then, I can tell you I know you, for all your face
is covered, and I can tell you I am up to you, however you may hide
your tricks. After all, where envy reigns virtue cannot live, and where
there is niggardliness there can be no liberality. Ill betide the
devil! if it had not been for your worship my master would be married
to the Princess Micomicona this minute, and I should be a count at
least; for no less was to be expected, as well from the goodness of my
master, him of the Rueful Countenance, as from the greatness of my
services. But I see now how true it is what they say in these parts,
that the wheel of fortune turns faster than a mill-wheel, and that
those who were up yesterday are down to-day. I am sorry for my wife and
children, for when they might fairly and reasonably expect to see their
father return to them a governor or viceroy of some island or kingdom,
they will see him come back a horse-boy. I have said all this, señor
curate, only to urge your paternity to lay to your conscience your
ill-treatment of my master; and have a care that God does not call you
to account in another life for making a prisoner of him in this way,
and charge against you all the succours and good deeds that my lord Don
Quixote leaves undone while he is shut up.
“Trim those lamps there!” exclaimed the barber at this; “so you are of
the same fraternity as your master, too, Sancho? By God, I begin to see
that you will have to keep him company in the cage, and be enchanted
like him for having caught some of his humour and chivalry. It was an
evil hour when you let yourself be got with child by his promises, and
that island you long so much for found its way into your head.”
“I am not with child by anyone,” returned Sancho, “nor am I a man to
let myself be got with child, if it was by the King himself. Though I
am poor I am an old Christian, and I owe nothing to nobody, and if I
long for an island, other people long for worse. Each of us is the son
of his own works; and being a man I may come to be pope, not to say
governor of an island, especially as my master may win so many that he
will not know whom to give them to. Mind how you talk, master barber;
for shaving is not everything, and there is some difference between
Peter and Peter. I say this because we all know one another, and it
will not do to throw false dice with me; and as to the enchantment of
my master, God knows the truth; leave it as it is; it only makes it
worse to stir it.”
The barber did not care to answer Sancho lest by his plain speaking he
should disclose what the curate and he himself were trying so hard to
conceal; and under the same apprehension the curate had asked the canon
to ride on a little in advance, so that he might tell him the mystery
of this man in the cage, and other things that would amuse him. The
canon agreed, and going on ahead with his servants, listened with
attention to the account of the character, life, madness, and ways of
Don Quixote, given him by the curate, who described to him briefly the
beginning and origin of his craze, and told him the whole story of his
adventures up to his being confined in the cage, together with the plan
they had of taking him home to try if by any means they could discover
a cure for his madness. The canon and his servants were surprised anew
when they heard Don Quixote’s strange story, and when it was finished
he said, “To tell the truth, señor curate, I for my part consider what
they call books of chivalry to be mischievous to the State; and though,
led by idle and false taste, I have read the beginnings of almost all
that have been printed, I never could manage to read any one of them
from beginning to end; for it seems to me they are all more or less the
same thing; and one has nothing more in it than another; this no more
than that. And in my opinion this sort of writing and composition is of
the same species as the fables they call the Milesian, nonsensical
tales that aim solely at giving amusement and not instruction, exactly
the opposite of the apologue fables which amuse and instruct at the
same time. And though it may be the chief object of such books to
amuse, I do not know how they can succeed, when they are so full of
such monstrous nonsense. For the enjoyment the mind feels must come
from the beauty and harmony which it perceives or contemplates in the
things that the eye or the imagination brings before it; and nothing
that has any ugliness or disproportion about it can give any pleasure.
What beauty, then, or what proportion of the parts to the whole, or of
the whole to the parts, can there be in a book or fable where a lad of
sixteen cuts down a giant as tall as a tower and makes two halves of
him as if he was an almond cake? And when they want to give us a
picture of a battle, after having told us that there are a million of
combatants on the side of the enemy, let the hero of the book be
opposed to them, and we have perforce to believe, whether we like it or
not, that the said knight wins the victory by the single might of his
strong arm. And then, what shall we say of the facility with which a
born queen or empress will give herself over into the arms of some
unknown wandering knight? What mind, that is not wholly barbarous and
uncultured, can find pleasure in reading of how a great tower full of
knights sails away across the sea like a ship with a fair wind, and
will be to-night in Lombardy and to-morrow morning in the land of
Prester John of the Indies, or some other that Ptolemy never described
nor Marco Polo saw? And if, in answer to this, I am told that the
authors of books of the kind write them as fiction, and therefore are
not bound to regard niceties of truth, I would reply that fiction is
all the better the more it looks like truth, and gives the more
pleasure the more probability and possibility there is about it. Plots
in fiction should be wedded to the understanding of the reader, and be
constructed in such a way that, reconciling impossibilities, smoothing
over difficulties, keeping the mind on the alert, they may surprise,
interest, divert, and entertain, so that wonder and delight joined may
keep pace one with the other; all which he will fail to effect who
shuns verisimilitude and truth to nature, wherein lies the perfection
of writing. I have never yet seen any book of chivalry that puts
together a connected plot complete in all its numbers, so that the
middle agrees with the beginning, and the end with the beginning and
middle; on the contrary, they construct them with such a multitude of
members that it seems as though they meant to produce a chimera or
monster rather than a well-proportioned figure. And besides all this
they are harsh in their style, incredible in their achievements,
licentious in their amours, uncouth in their courtly speeches, prolix
in their battles, silly in their arguments, absurd in their travels,
and, in short, wanting in everything like intelligent art; for which
reason they deserve to be banished from the Christian commonwealth as a
worthless breed.”
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The curate listened to him attentively and felt that he was a man of
sound understanding, and that there was good reason in what he said; so
he told him that, being of the same opinion himself, and bearing a
grudge to books of chivalry, he had burned all Don Quixote’s, which
were many; and gave him an account of the scrutiny he had made of them,
and of those he had condemned to the flames and those he had spared,
with which the canon was not a little amused, adding that though he had
said so much in condemnation of these books, still he found one good
thing in them, and that was the opportunity they afforded to a gifted
intellect for displaying itself; for they presented a wide and spacious
field over which the pen might range freely, describing shipwrecks,
tempests, combats, battles, portraying a valiant captain with all the
qualifications requisite to make one, showing him sagacious in
foreseeing the wiles of the enemy, eloquent in speech to encourage or
restrain his soldiers, ripe in counsel, rapid in resolve, as bold in
biding his time as in pressing the attack; now picturing some sad
tragic incident, now some joyful and unexpected event; here a beauteous
lady, virtuous, wise, and modest; there a Christian knight, brave and
gentle; here a lawless, barbarous braggart; there a courteous prince,
gallant and gracious; setting forth the devotion and loyalty of
vassals, the greatness and generosity of nobles. “Or again,” said he,
“the author may show himself to be an astronomer, or a skilled
cosmographer, or musician, or one versed in affairs of state, and
sometimes he will have a chance of coming forward as a magician if he
likes. He can set forth the craftiness of Ulysses, the piety of Æneas,
the valour of Achilles, the misfortunes of Hector, the treachery of
Sinon, the friendship of Euryalus, the generosity of Alexander, the
boldness of Cæsar, the clemency and truth of Trajan, the fidelity of
Zopyrus, the wisdom of Cato, and in short all the faculties that serve
to make an illustrious man perfect, now uniting them in one individual,
again distributing them among many; and if this be done with charm of
style and ingenious invention, aiming at the truth as much as possible,
he will assuredly weave a web of bright and varied threads that, when
finished, will display such perfection and beauty that it will attain
the worthiest object any writing can seek, which, as I said before, is
to give instruction and pleasure combined; for the unrestricted range
of these books enables the author to show his powers, epic, lyric,
tragic, or comic, and all the moods the sweet and winning arts of poesy
and oratory are capable of; for the epic may be written in prose just
as well as in verse.”
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CHAPTER XLVIII.
IN WHICH THE CANON PURSUES THE SUBJECT OF THE BOOKS OF CHIVALRY, WITH
OTHER MATTERS WORTHY OF HIS WIT
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“It is as you say, señor canon,” said the curate; “and for that reason
those who have hitherto written books of the sort deserve all the more
censure for writing without paying any attention to good taste or the
rules of art, by which they might guide themselves and become as famous
in prose as the two princes of Greek and Latin poetry are in verse.”
“I myself, at any rate,” said the canon, “was once tempted to write a
book of chivalry in which all the points I have mentioned were to be
observed; and if I must own the truth I have more than a hundred sheets
written; and to try if it came up to my own opinion of it, I showed
them to persons who were fond of this kind of reading, to learned and
intelligent men as well as to ignorant people who cared for nothing but
the pleasure of listening to nonsense, and from all I obtained
flattering approval; nevertheless I proceeded no farther with it, as
well because it seemed to me an occupation inconsistent with my
profession, as because I perceived that the fools are more numerous
than the wise; and, though it is better to be praised by the wise few
than applauded by the foolish many, I have no mind to submit myself to
the stupid judgment of the silly public, to whom the reading of such
books falls for the most part.
“But what most of all made me hold my hand and even abandon all idea of
finishing it was an argument I put to myself taken from the plays that
are acted now-a-days, which was in this wise: if those that are now in
vogue, as well those that are pure invention as those founded on
history, are, all or most of them, downright nonsense and things that
have neither head nor tail, and yet the public listens to them with
delight, and regards and cries them up as perfection when they are so
far from it; and if the authors who write them, and the players who act
them, say that this is what they must be, for the public wants this and
will have nothing else; and that those that go by rule and work out a
plot according to the laws of art will only find some half-dozen
intelligent people to understand them, while all the rest remain blind
to the merit of their composition; and that for themselves it is better
to get bread from the many than praise from the few; then my book will
fare the same way, after I have burnt off my eyebrows in trying to
observe the principles I have spoken of, and I shall be ‘the tailor of
the corner.’ And though I have sometimes endeavoured to convince actors
that they are mistaken in this notion they have adopted, and that they
would attract more people, and get more credit, by producing plays in
accordance with the rules of art, than by absurd ones, they are so
thoroughly wedded to their own opinion that no argument or evidence can
wean them from it.
“I remember saying one day to one of these obstinate fellows, ‘Tell me,
do you not recollect that a few years ago, there were three tragedies
acted in Spain, written by a famous poet of these kingdoms, which were
such that they filled all who heard them with admiration, delight, and
interest, the ignorant as well as the wise, the masses as well as the
higher orders, and brought in more money to the performers, these three
alone, than thirty of the best that have been since produced?’
“‘No doubt,’ replied the actor in question, ‘you mean the “Isabella,”
the “Phyllis,” and the “Alexandra.”’
“‘Those are the ones I mean,’ said I; ‘and see if they did not observe
the principles of art, and if, by observing them, they failed to show
their superiority and please all the world; so that the fault does not
lie with the public that insists upon nonsense, but with those who
don’t know how to produce something else. “The Ingratitude Revenged”
was not nonsense, nor was there any in “The Numantia,” nor any to be
found in “The Merchant Lover,” nor yet in “The Friendly Fair Foe,” nor
in some others that have been written by certain gifted poets, to their
own fame and renown, and to the profit of those that brought them out;’
some further remarks I added to these, with which, I think, I left him
rather dumbfoundered, but not so satisfied or convinced that I could
disabuse him of his error.”
“You have touched upon a subject, señor canon,” observed the curate
here, “that has awakened an old enmity I have against the plays in
vogue at the present day, quite as strong as that which I bear to the
books of chivalry; for while the drama, according to Tully, should be
the mirror of human life, the model of manners, and the image of the
truth, those which are presented now-a-days are mirrors of nonsense,
models of folly, and images of lewdness. For what greater nonsense can
there be in connection with what we are now discussing than for an
infant to appear in swaddling clothes in the first scene of the first
act, and in the second a grown-up bearded man? Or what greater
absurdity can there be than putting before us an old man as a
swashbuckler, a young man as a poltroon, a lackey using fine language,
a page giving sage advice, a king plying as a porter, a princess who is
a kitchen-maid? And then what shall I say of their attention to the
time in which the action they represent may or can take place, save
that I have seen a play where the first act began in Europe, the second
in Asia, the third finished in Africa, and no doubt, had it been in
four acts, the fourth would have ended in America, and so it would have
been laid in all four quarters of the globe? And if truth to life is
the main thing the drama should keep in view, how is it possible for
any average understanding to be satisfied when the action is supposed
to pass in the time of King Pepin or Charlemagne, and the principal
personage in it they represent to be the Emperor Heraclius who entered
Jerusalem with the cross and won the Holy Sepulchre, like Godfrey of
Bouillon, there being years innumerable between the one and the other?
or, if the play is based on fiction and historical facts are
introduced, or bits of what occurred to different people and at
different times mixed up with it, all, not only without any semblance
of probability, but with obvious errors that from every point of view
are inexcusable? And the worst of it is, there are ignorant people who
say that this is perfection, and that anything beyond this is affected
refinement. And then if we turn to sacred dramas—what miracles they
invent in them! What apocryphal, ill-devised incidents, attributing to
one saint the miracles of another! And even in secular plays they
venture to introduce miracles without any reason or object except that
they think some such miracle, or transformation as they call it, will
come in well to astonish stupid people and draw them to the play. All
this tends to the prejudice of the truth and the corruption of history,
nay more, to the reproach of the wits of Spain; for foreigners who
scrupulously observe the laws of the drama look upon us as barbarous
and ignorant, when they see the absurdity and nonsense of the plays we
produce. Nor will it be a sufficient excuse to say that the chief
object well-ordered governments have in view when they permit plays to
be performed in public is to entertain the people with some harmless
amusement occasionally, and keep it from those evil humours which
idleness is apt to engender; and that, as this may be attained by any
sort of play, good or bad, there is no need to lay down laws, or bind
those who write or act them to make them as they ought to be made,
since, as I say, the object sought for may be secured by any sort. To
this I would reply that the same end would be, beyond all comparison,
better attained by means of good plays than by those that are not so;
for after listening to an artistic and properly constructed play, the
hearer will come away enlivened by the jests, instructed by the serious
parts, full of admiration at the incidents, his wits sharpened by the
arguments, warned by the tricks, all the wiser for the examples,
inflamed against vice, and in love with virtue; for in all these ways a
good play will stimulate the mind of the hearer be he ever so boorish
or dull; and of all impossibilities the greatest is that a play endowed
with all these qualities will not entertain, satisfy, and please much
more than one wanting in them, like the greater number of those which
are commonly acted now-a-days. Nor are the poets who write them to be
blamed for this; for some there are among them who are perfectly well
aware of their faults, and know what they ought to do; but as plays
have become a salable commodity, they say, and with truth, that the
actors will not buy them unless they are after this fashion; and so the
poet tries to adapt himself to the requirements of the actor who is to
pay him for his work. And that this is the truth may be seen by the
countless plays that a most fertile wit of these kingdoms has written,
with so much brilliancy, so much grace and gaiety, such polished
versification, such choice language, such profound reflections, and in
a word, so rich in eloquence and elevation of style, that he has filled
the world with his fame; and yet, in consequence of his desire to suit
the taste of the actors, they have not all, as some of them have, come
as near perfection as they ought. Others write plays with such
heedlessness that, after they have been acted, the actors have to fly
and abscond, afraid of being punished, as they often have been, for
having acted something offensive to some king or other, or insulting to
some noble family. All which evils, and many more that I say nothing
of, would be removed if there were some intelligent and sensible person
at the capital to examine all plays before they were acted, not only
those produced in the capital itself, but all that were intended to be
acted in Spain; without whose approval, seal, and signature, no local
magistracy should allow any play to be acted. In that case actors would
take care to send their plays to the capital, and could act them in
safety, and those who write them would be more careful and take more
pains with their work, standing in awe of having to submit it to the
strict examination of one who understood the matter; and so good plays
would be produced and the objects they aim at happily attained; as well
the amusement of the people, as the credit of the wits of Spain, the
interest and safety of the actors, and the saving of trouble in
inflicting punishment on them. And if the same or some other person
were authorised to examine the newly written books of chivalry, no
doubt some would appear with all the perfections you have described,
enriching our language with the gracious and precious treasure of
eloquence, and driving the old books into obscurity before the light of
the new ones that would come out for the harmless entertainment, not
merely of the idle but of the very busiest; for the bow cannot be
always bent, nor can weak human nature exist without some lawful
amusement.”
The canon and the curate had proceeded thus far with their
conversation, when the barber, coming forward, joined them, and said to
the curate, “This is the spot, señor licentiate, that I said was a good
one for fresh and plentiful pasture for the oxen, while we take our
noontide rest.”
“And so it seems,” returned the curate, and he told the canon what he
proposed to do, on which he too made up his mind to halt with them,
attracted by the aspect of the fair valley that lay before their eyes;
and to enjoy it as well as the conversation of the curate, to whom he
had begun to take a fancy, and also to learn more particulars about the
doings of Don Quixote, he desired some of his servants to go on to the
inn, which was not far distant, and fetch from it what eatables there
might be for the whole party, as he meant to rest for the afternoon
where he was; to which one of his servants replied that the sumpter
mule, which by this time ought to have reached the inn, carried
provisions enough to make it unnecessary to get anything from the inn
except barley.
“In that case,” said the canon, “take all the beasts there, and bring
the sumpter mule back.”
While this was going on, Sancho, perceiving that he could speak to his
master without having the curate and the barber, of whom he had his
suspicions, present all the time, approached the cage in which Don
Quixote was placed, and said, “Señor, to ease my conscience I want to
tell you the state of the case as to your enchantment, and that is that
these two here, with their faces covered, are the curate of our village
and the barber; and I suspect they have hit upon this plan of carrying
you off in this fashion, out of pure envy because your worship
surpasses them in doing famous deeds; and if this be the truth it
follows that you are not enchanted, but hoodwinked and made a fool of.
And to prove this I want to ask you one thing; and if you answer me as
I believe you will answer, you will be able to lay your finger on the
trick, and you will see that you are not enchanted but gone wrong in
your wits.”
“Ask what thou wilt, Sancho my son,” returned Don Quixote, “for I will
satisfy thee and answer all thou requirest. As to what thou sayest,
that these who accompany us yonder are the curate and the barber, our
neighbours and acquaintances, it is very possible that they may seem to
be those same persons; but that they are so in reality and in fact,
believe it not on any account; what thou art to believe and think is
that, if they look like them, as thou sayest, it must be that those who
have enchanted me have taken this shape and likeness; for it is easy
for enchanters to take any form they please, and they may have taken
those of our friends in order to make thee think as thou dost, and lead
thee into a labyrinth of fancies from which thou wilt find no escape
though thou hadst the cord of Theseus; and they may also have done it
to make me uncertain in my mind, and unable to conjecture whence this
evil comes to me; for if on the one hand thou dost tell me that the
barber and curate of our village are here in company with us, and on
the other I find myself shut up in a cage, and know in my heart that no
power on earth that was not supernatural would have been able to shut
me in, what wouldst thou have me say or think, but that my enchantment
is of a sort that transcends all I have ever read of in all the
histories that deal with knights-errant that have been enchanted? So
thou mayest set thy mind at rest as to the idea that they are what thou
sayest, for they are as much so as I am a Turk. But touching thy desire
to ask me something, say on, and I will answer thee, though thou
shouldst ask questions from this till to-morrow morning.”
“May Our Lady be good to me!” said Sancho, lifting up his voice; “and
is it possible that your worship is so thick of skull and so short of
brains that you cannot see that what I say is the simple truth, and
that malice has more to do with your imprisonment and misfortune than
enchantment? But as it is so, I will prove plainly to you that you are
not enchanted. Now tell me, so may God deliver you from this
affliction, and so may you find yourself when you least expect it in
the arms of my lady Dulcinea—”
“Leave off conjuring me,” said Don Quixote, “and ask what thou wouldst
know; I have already told thee I will answer with all possible
precision.”
“That is what I want,” said Sancho; “and what I would know, and have
you tell me, without adding or leaving out anything, but telling the
whole truth as one expects it to be told, and as it is told, by all who
profess arms, as your worship professes them, under the title of
knights-errant—”
“I tell thee I will not lie in any particular,” said Don Quixote;
“finish thy question; for in truth thou weariest me with all these
asseverations, requirements, and precautions, Sancho.”
“Well, I rely on the goodness and truth of my master,” said Sancho;
“and so, because it bears upon what we are talking about, I would ask,
speaking with all reverence, whether since your worship has been shut
up and, as you think, enchanted in this cage, you have felt any desire
or inclination to go anywhere, as the saying is?”
“I do not understand ‘going anywhere,’” said Don Quixote; “explain
thyself more clearly, Sancho, if thou wouldst have me give an answer to
the point.”
“Is it possible,” said Sancho, “that your worship does not understand
‘going anywhere’? Why, the schoolboys know that from the time they were
babes. Well then, you must know I mean have you had any desire to do
what cannot be avoided?”
“Ah! now I understand thee, Sancho,” said Don Quixote; “yes, often, and
even this minute; get me out of this strait, or all will not go right.”
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CHAPTER XLIX.
WHICH TREATS OF THE SHREWD CONVERSATION WHICH SANCHO PANZA HELD WITH
HIS MASTER DON QUIXOTE
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“Aha, I have caught you,” said Sancho; “this is what in my heart and
soul I was longing to know. Come now, señor, can you deny what is
commonly said around us, when a person is out of humour, ‘I don’t know
what ails so-and-so, that he neither eats, nor drinks, nor sleeps, nor
gives a proper answer to any question; one would think he was
enchanted’? From which it is to be gathered that those who do not eat,
or drink, or sleep, or do any of the natural acts I am speaking of—that
such persons are enchanted; but not those that have the desire your
worship has, and drink when drink is given them, and eat when there is
anything to eat, and answer every question that is asked them.”
“What thou sayest is true, Sancho,” replied Don Quixote; “but I have
already told thee there are many sorts of enchantments, and it may be
that in the course of time they have been changed one for another, and
that now it may be the way with enchanted people to do all that I do,
though they did not do so before; so it is vain to argue or draw
inferences against the usage of the time. I know and feel that I am
enchanted, and that is enough to ease my conscience; for it would weigh
heavily on it if I thought that I was not enchanted, and that in a
faint-hearted and cowardly way I allowed myself to lie in this cage,
defrauding multitudes of the succour I might afford to those in need
and distress, who at this very moment may be in sore want of my aid and
protection.”
“Still for all that,” replied Sancho, “I say that, for your greater and
fuller satisfaction, it would be well if your worship were to try to
get out of this prison (and I promise to do all in my power to help,
and even to take you out of it), and see if you could once more mount
your good Rocinante, who seems to be enchanted too, he is so melancholy
and dejected; and then we might try our chance in looking for
adventures again; and if we have no luck there will be time enough to
go back to the cage; in which, on the faith of a good and loyal squire,
I promise to shut myself up along with your worship, if so be you are
so unfortunate, or I so stupid, as not to be able to carry out my
plan.”
“I am content to do as thou sayest, brother Sancho,” said Don Quixote,
“and when thou seest an opportunity for effecting my release I will
obey thee absolutely; but thou wilt see, Sancho, how mistaken thou art
in thy conception of my misfortune.”
The knight-errant and the ill-errant squire kept up their conversation
till they reached the place where the curate, the canon, and the
barber, who had already dismounted, were waiting for them. The carter
at once unyoked the oxen and left them to roam at large about the
pleasant green spot, the freshness of which seemed to invite, not
enchanted people like Don Quixote, but wide-awake, sensible folk like
his squire, who begged the curate to allow his master to leave the cage
for a little; for if they did not let him out, the prison might not be
as clean as the propriety of such a gentleman as his master required.
The curate understood him, and said he would very gladly comply with
his request, only that he feared his master, finding himself at
liberty, would take to his old courses and make off where nobody could
ever find him again.
“I will answer for his not running away,” said Sancho.
“And I also,” said the canon, “especially if he gives me his word as a
knight not to leave us without our consent.”
Don Quixote, who was listening to all this, said, “I give it;—moreover
one who is enchanted as I am cannot do as he likes with himself; for he
who had enchanted him could prevent his moving from one place for three
ages, and if he attempted to escape would bring him back flying.”—And
that being so, they might as well release him, particularly as it would
be to the advantage of all; for, if they did not let him out, he
protested he would be unable to avoid offending their nostrils unless
they kept their distance.
The canon took his hand, tied together as they both were, and on his
word and promise they unbound him, and rejoiced beyond measure he was
to find himself out of the cage. The first thing he did was to stretch
himself all over, and then he went to where Rocinante was standing and
giving him a couple of slaps on the haunches said, “I still trust in
God and in his blessed mother, O flower and mirror of steeds, that we
shall soon see ourselves, both of us, as we wish to be, thou with thy
master on thy back, and I mounted upon thee, following the calling for
which God sent me into the world.” And so saying, accompanied by
Sancho, he withdrew to a retired spot, from which he came back much
relieved and more eager than ever to put his squire’s scheme into
execution.
The canon gazed at him, wondering at the extraordinary nature of his
madness, and that in all his remarks and replies he should show such
excellent sense, and only lose his stirrups, as has been already said,
when the subject of chivalry was broached. And so, moved by compassion,
he said to him, as they all sat on the green grass awaiting the arrival
of the provisions:
“Is it possible, gentle sir, that the nauseous and idle reading of
books of chivalry can have had such an effect on your worship as to
upset your reason so that you fancy yourself enchanted, and the like,
all as far from the truth as falsehood itself is? How can there be any
human understanding that can persuade itself there ever was all that
infinity of Amadises in the world, or all that multitude of famous
knights, all those emperors of Trebizond, all those Felixmartes of
Hircania, all those palfreys, and damsels-errant, and serpents, and
monsters, and giants, and marvellous adventures, and enchantments of
every kind, and battles, and prodigious encounters, splendid costumes,
love-sick princesses, squires made counts, droll dwarfs, love letters,
billings and cooings, swashbuckler women, and, in a word, all that
nonsense the books of chivalry contain? For myself, I can only say that
when I read them, so long as I do not stop to think that they are all
lies and frivolity, they give me a certain amount of pleasure; but when
I come to consider what they are, I fling the very best of them at the
wall, and would fling it into the fire if there were one at hand, as
richly deserving such punishment as cheats and impostors out of the
range of ordinary toleration, and as founders of new sects and modes of
life, and teachers that lead the ignorant public to believe and accept
as truth all the folly they contain. And such is their audacity, they
even dare to unsettle the wits of gentlemen of birth and intelligence,
as is shown plainly by the way they have served your worship, when they
have brought you to such a pass that you have to be shut up in a cage
and carried on an ox-cart as one would carry a lion or a tiger from
place to place to make money by showing it. Come, Señor Don Quixote,
have some compassion for yourself, return to the bosom of common sense,
and make use of the liberal share of it that heaven has been pleased to
bestow upon you, employing your abundant gifts of mind in some other
reading that may serve to benefit your conscience and add to your
honour. And if, still led away by your natural bent, you desire to read
books of achievements and of chivalry, read the Book of Judges in the
Holy Scriptures, for there you will find grand reality, and deeds as
true as they are heroic. Lusitania had a Viriatus, Rome a Cæsar,
Carthage a Hannibal, Greece an Alexander, Castile a Count Fernan
Gonzalez, Valencia a Cid, Andalusia a Gonzalo Fernandez, Estremadura a
Diego García de Paredes, Jerez a Garci Perez de Vargas, Toledo a
Garcilaso, Seville a Don Manuel de Leon, to read of whose valiant deeds
will entertain and instruct the loftiest minds and fill them with
delight and wonder. Here, Señor Don Quixote, will be reading worthy of
your sound understanding; from which you will rise learned in history,
in love with virtue, strengthened in goodness, improved in manners,
brave without rashness, prudent without cowardice; and all to the
honour of God, your own advantage and the glory of La Mancha, whence, I
am informed, your worship derives your birth.”
Don Quixote listened with the greatest attention to the canon’s words,
and when he found he had finished, after regarding him for some time,
he replied to him:
“It appears to me, gentle sir, that your worship’s discourse is
intended to persuade me that there never were any knights-errant in the
world, and that all the books of chivalry are false, lying, mischievous
and useless to the State, and that I have done wrong in reading them,
and worse in believing them, and still worse in imitating them, when I
undertook to follow the arduous calling of knight-errantry which they
set forth; for you deny that there ever were Amadises of Gaul or of
Greece, or any other of the knights of whom the books are full.”
“It is all exactly as you state it,” said the canon; to which Don
Quixote returned, “You also went on to say that books of this kind had
done me much harm, inasmuch as they had upset my senses, and shut me up
in a cage, and that it would be better for me to reform and change my
studies, and read other truer books which would afford more pleasure
and instruction.”
“Just so,” said the canon.
“Well then,” returned Don Quixote, “to my mind it is you who are the
one that is out of his wits and enchanted, as you have ventured to
utter such blasphemies against a thing so universally acknowledged and
accepted as true that whoever denies it, as you do, deserves the same
punishment which you say you inflict on the books that irritate you
when you read them. For to try to persuade anybody that Amadis, and all
the other knights-adventurers with whom the books are filled, never
existed, would be like trying to persuade him that the sun does not
yield light, or ice cold, or earth nourishment. What wit in the world
can persuade another that the story of the Princess Floripes and Guy of
Burgundy is not true, or that of Fierabras and the bridge of Mantible,
which happened in the time of Charlemagne? For by all that is good it
is as true as that it is daylight now; and if it be a lie, it must be a
lie too that there was a Hector, or Achilles, or Trojan war, or Twelve
Peers of France, or Arthur of England, who still lives changed into a
raven, and is unceasingly looked for in his kingdom. One might just as
well try to make out that the history of Guarino Mezquino, or of the
quest of the Holy Grail, is false, or that the loves of Tristram and
the Queen Yseult are apocryphal, as well as those of Guinevere and
Lancelot, when there are persons who can almost remember having seen
the Dame Quintañona, who was the best cupbearer in Great Britain. And
so true is this, that I recollect a grandmother of mine on the father’s
side, whenever she saw any dame in a venerable hood, used to say to me,
‘Grandson, that one is like Dame Quintañona,’ from which I conclude
that she must have known her, or at least had managed to see some
portrait of her. Then who can deny that the story of Pierres and the
fair Magalona is true, when even to this day may be seen in the king’s
armoury the pin with which the valiant Pierres guided the wooden horse
he rode through the air, and it is a trifle bigger than the pole of a
cart? And alongside of the pin is Babieca’s saddle, and at Roncesvalles
there is Roland’s horn, as large as a large beam; whence we may infer
that there were Twelve Peers, and a Pierres, and a Cid, and other
knights like them, of the sort people commonly call adventurers. Or
perhaps I shall be told, too, that there was no such knight-errant as
the valiant Lusitanian Juan de Merlo, who went to Burgundy and in the
city of Arras fought with the famous lord of Charny, Mosen Pierres by
name, and afterwards in the city of Basle with Mosen Enrique de
Remesten, coming out of both encounters covered with fame and honour;
or adventures and challenges achieved and delivered, also in Burgundy,
by the valiant Spaniards Pedro Barba and Gutierre Quixada (of whose
family I come in the direct male line), when they vanquished the sons
of the Count of San Polo. I shall be told, too, that Don Fernando de
Guevara did not go in quest of adventures to Germany, where he engaged
in combat with Micer George, a knight of the house of the Duke of
Austria. I shall be told that the jousts of Suero de Quiñones, him of
the ‘Paso,’ and the emprise of Mosen Luis de Falces against the
Castilian knight, Don Gonzalo de Guzman, were mere mockeries; as well
as many other achievements of Christian knights of these and foreign
realms, which are so authentic and true, that, I repeat, he who denies
them must be totally wanting in reason and good sense.”
The canon was amazed to hear the medley of truth and fiction Don
Quixote uttered, and to see how well acquainted he was with everything
relating or belonging to the achievements of his knight-errantry; so he
said in reply:
“I cannot deny, Señor Don Quixote, that there is some truth in what you
say, especially as regards the Spanish knights-errant; and I am willing
to grant too that the Twelve Peers of France existed, but I am not
disposed to believe that they did all the things that the Archbishop
Turpin relates of them. For the truth of the matter is they were
knights chosen by the kings of France, and called ‘Peers’ because they
were all equal in worth, rank and prowess (at least if they were not
they ought to have been), and it was a kind of religious order like
those of Santiago and Calatrava in the present day, in which it is
assumed that those who take it are valiant knights of distinction and
good birth; and just as we say now a Knight of St. John, or of
Alcántara, they used to say then a Knight of the Twelve Peers, because
twelve equals were chosen for that military order. That there was a
Cid, as well as a Bernardo del Carpio, there can be no doubt; but that
they did the deeds people say they did, I hold to be very doubtful. In
that other matter of the pin of Count Pierres that you speak of, and
say is near Babieca’s saddle in the Armoury, I confess my sin; for I am
either so stupid or so short-sighted, that, though I have seen the
saddle, I have never been able to see the pin, in spite of it being as
big as your worship says it is.”
“For all that it is there, without any manner of doubt,” said Don
Quixote; “and more by token they say it is inclosed in a sheath of
cowhide to keep it from rusting.”
“All that may be,” replied the canon; “but, by the orders I have
received, I do not remember seeing it. However, granting it is there,
that is no reason why I am bound to believe the stories of all those
Amadises and of all that multitude of knights they tell us about, nor
is it reasonable that a man like your worship, so worthy, and with so
many good qualities, and endowed with such a good understanding, should
allow himself to be persuaded that such wild crazy things as are
written in those absurd books of chivalry are really true.”
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CHAPTER L.
OF THE SHREWD CONTROVERSY WHICH DON QUIXOTE AND THE CANON HELD,
TOGETHER WITH OTHER INCIDENTS
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“A good joke, that!” returned Don Quixote. “Books that have been
printed with the king’s licence, and with the approbation of those to
whom they have been submitted, and read with universal delight, and
extolled by great and small, rich and poor, learned and ignorant,
gentle and simple, in a word by people of every sort, of whatever rank
or condition they may be—that these should be lies! And above all when
they carry such an appearance of truth with them; for they tell us the
father, mother, country, kindred, age, place, and the achievements,
step by step, and day by day, performed by such a knight or knights!
Hush, sir; utter not such blasphemy; trust me I am advising you now to
act as a sensible man should; only read them, and you will see the
pleasure you will derive from them. For, come, tell me, can there be
anything more delightful than to see, as it were, here now displayed
before us a vast lake of bubbling pitch with a host of snakes and
serpents and lizards, and ferocious and terrible creatures of all sorts
swimming about in it, while from the middle of the lake there comes a
plaintive voice saying: ‘Knight, whosoever thou art who beholdest this
dread lake, if thou wouldst win the prize that lies hidden beneath
these dusky waves, prove the valour of thy stout heart and cast thyself
into the midst of its dark burning waters, else thou shalt not be
worthy to see the mighty wonders contained in the seven castles of the
seven Fays that lie beneath this black expanse;’ and then the knight,
almost ere the awful voice has ceased, without stopping to consider,
without pausing to reflect upon the danger to which he is exposing
himself, without even relieving himself of the weight of his massive
armour, commending himself to God and to his lady, plunges into the
midst of the boiling lake, and when he little looks for it, or knows
what his fate is to be, he finds himself among flowery meadows, with
which the Elysian fields are not to be compared.
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“The sky seems more transparent there, and the sun shines with a
strange brilliancy, and a delightful grove of green leafy trees
presents itself to the eyes and charms the sight with its verdure,
while the ear is soothed by the sweet untutored melody of the countless
birds of gay plumage that flit to and fro among the interlacing
branches. Here he sees a brook whose limpid waters, like liquid
crystal, ripple over fine sands and white pebbles that look like sifted
gold and purest pearls. There he perceives a cunningly wrought fountain
of many-coloured jasper and polished marble; here another of rustic
fashion where the little mussel-shells and the spiral white and yellow
mansions of the snail disposed in studious disorder, mingled with
fragments of glittering crystal and mock emeralds, make up a work of
varied aspect, where art, imitating nature, seems to have outdone it.
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“Suddenly there is presented to his sight a strong castle or gorgeous
palace with walls of massy gold, turrets of diamond and gates of
jacinth; in short, so marvellous is its structure that though the
materials of which it is built are nothing less than diamonds,
carbuncles, rubies, pearls, gold, and emeralds, the workmanship is
still more rare. And after having seen all this, what can be more
charming than to see how a bevy of damsels comes forth from the gate of
the castle in gay and gorgeous attire, such that, were I to set myself
now to depict it as the histories describe it to us, I should never
have done; and then how she who seems to be the first among them all
takes the bold knight who plunged into the boiling lake by the hand,
and without addressing a word to him leads him into the rich palace or
castle, and strips him as naked as when his mother bore him, and bathes
him in lukewarm water, and anoints him all over with sweet-smelling
unguents, and clothes him in a shirt of the softest sendal, all scented
and perfumed, while another damsel comes and throws over his shoulders
a mantle which is said to be worth at the very least a city, and even
more? How charming it is, then, when they tell us how, after all this,
they lead him to another chamber where he finds the tables set out in
such style that he is filled with amazement and wonder; to see how they
pour out water for his hands distilled from amber and sweet-scented
flowers; how they seat him on an ivory chair; to see how the damsels
wait on him all in profound silence; how they bring him such a variety
of dainties so temptingly prepared that the appetite is at a loss which
to select; to hear the music that resounds while he is at table, by
whom or whence produced he knows not. And then when the repast is over
and the tables removed, for the knight to recline in the chair, picking
his teeth perhaps as usual, and a damsel, much lovelier than any of the
others, to enter unexpectedly by the chamber door, and herself by his
side, and begin to tell him what the castle is, and how she is held
enchanted there, and other things that amaze the knight and astonish
the readers who are perusing his history.
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“But I will not expatiate any further upon this, as it may be gathered
from it that whatever part of whatever history of a knight-errant one
reads, it will fill the reader, whoever he be, with delight and wonder;
and take my advice, sir, and, as I said before, read these books and
you will see how they will banish any melancholy you may feel and raise
your spirits should they be depressed. For myself I can say that since
I have been a knight-errant I have become valiant, polite, generous,
well-bred, magnanimous, courteous, dauntless, gentle, patient, and have
learned to bear hardships, imprisonments, and enchantments; and though
it be such a short time since I have seen myself shut up in a cage like
a madman, I hope by the might of my arm, if heaven aid me and fortune
thwart me not, to see myself king of some kingdom where I may be able
to show the gratitude and generosity that dwell in my heart; for by my
faith, señor, the poor man is incapacitated from showing the virtue of
generosity to anyone, though he may possess it in the highest degree;
and gratitude that consists of disposition only is a dead thing, just
as faith without works is dead. For this reason I should be glad were
fortune soon to offer me some opportunity of making myself an emperor,
so as to show my heart in doing good to my friends, particularly to
this poor Sancho Panza, my squire, who is the best fellow in the world;
and I would gladly give him a county I have promised him this ever so
long, only that I am afraid he has not the capacity to govern his
realm.”
Sancho partly heard these last words of his master, and said to him,
“Strive hard you, Señor Don Quixote, to give me that county so often
promised by you and so long looked for by me, for I promise you there
will be no want of capacity in me to govern it; and even if there is, I
have heard say there are men in the world who farm seigniories, paying
so much a year, and they themselves taking charge of the government,
while the lord, with his legs stretched out, enjoys the revenue they
pay him, without troubling himself about anything else. That’s what
I’ll do, and not stand haggling over trifles, but wash my hands at once
of the whole business, and enjoy my rents like a duke, and let things
go their own way.”
“That, brother Sancho,” said the canon, “only holds good as far as the
enjoyment of the revenue goes; but the lord of the seigniory must
attend to the administration of justice, and here capacity and sound
judgment come in, and above all a firm determination to find out the
truth; for if this be wanting in the beginning, the middle and the end
will always go wrong; and God as commonly aids the honest intentions of
the simple as he frustrates the evil designs of the crafty.”
“I don’t understand those philosophies,” returned Sancho Panza; “all I
know is I would I had the county as soon as I shall know how to govern
it; for I have as much soul as another, and as much body as anyone, and
I shall be as much king of my realm as any other of his; and being so I
should do as I liked, and doing as I liked I should please myself, and
pleasing myself I should be content, and when one is content he has
nothing more to desire, and when one has nothing more to desire there
is an end of it; so let the county come, and God be with you, and let
us see one another, as one blind man said to the other.”
“That is not bad philosophy thou art talking, Sancho,” said the canon;
“but for all that there is a good deal to be said on this matter of
counties.”
To which Don Quixote returned, “I know not what more there is to be
said; I only guide myself by the example set me by the great Amadis of
Gaul, when he made his squire count of the Insula Firme; and so,
without any scruples of conscience, I can make a count of Sancho Panza,
for he is one of the best squires that ever knight-errant had.”
The canon was astonished at the methodical nonsense (if nonsense be
capable of method) that Don Quixote uttered, at the way in which he had
described the adventure of the knight of the lake, at the impression
that the deliberate lies of the books he read had made upon him, and
lastly he marvelled at the simplicity of Sancho, who desired so eagerly
to obtain the county his master had promised him.
By this time the canon’s servants, who had gone to the inn to fetch the
sumpter mule, had returned, and making a carpet and the green grass of
the meadow serve as a table, they seated themselves in the shade of
some trees and made their repast there, that the carter might not be
deprived of the advantage of the spot, as has been already said. As
they were eating they suddenly heard a loud noise and the sound of a
bell that seemed to come from among some brambles and thick bushes that
were close by, and the same instant they observed a beautiful goat,
spotted all over black, white, and brown, spring out of the thicket
with a goatherd after it, calling to it and uttering the usual cries to
make it stop or turn back to the fold. The fugitive goat, scared and
frightened, ran towards the company as if seeking their protection and
then stood still, and the goatherd coming up seized it by the horns and
began to talk to it as if it were possessed of reason and
understanding: “Ah wanderer, wanderer, Spotty, Spotty; how have you
gone limping all this time? What wolves have frightened you, my
daughter? Won’t you tell me what is the matter, my beauty? But what
else can it be except that you are a she, and cannot keep quiet? A
plague on your humours and the humours of those you take after! Come
back, come back, my darling; and if you will not be so happy, at any
rate you will be safe in the fold or with your companions; for if you
who ought to keep and lead them, go wandering astray, what will become
of them?”
The goatherd’s talk amused all who heard it, but especially the canon,
who said to him, “As you live, brother, take it easy, and be not in
such a hurry to drive this goat back to the fold; for, being a female,
as you say, she will follow her natural instinct in spite of all you
can do to prevent it. Take this morsel and drink a sup, and that will
soothe your irritation, and in the meantime the goat will rest
herself,” and so saying, he handed him the loins of a cold rabbit on a
fork.
The goatherd took it with thanks, and drank and calmed himself, and
then said, “I should be sorry if your worships were to take me for a
simpleton for having spoken so seriously as I did to this animal; but
the truth is there is a certain mystery in the words I used. I am a
clown, but not so much of one but that I know how to behave to men and
to beasts.”
“That I can well believe,” said the curate, “for I know already by
experience that the woods breed men of learning, and shepherds’ huts
harbour philosophers.”
“At all events, señor,” returned the goatherd, “they shelter men of
experience; and that you may see the truth of this and grasp it, though
I may seem to put myself forward without being asked, I will, if it
will not tire you, gentlemen, and you will give me your attention for a
little, tell you a true story which will confirm this gentleman’s word
(and he pointed to the curate) as well as my own.”
To this Don Quixote replied, “Seeing that this affair has a certain
colour of chivalry about it, I for my part, brother, will hear you most
gladly, and so will all these gentlemen, from the high intelligence
they possess and their love of curious novelties that interest, charm,
and entertain the mind, as I feel quite sure your story will do. So
begin, friend, for we are all prepared to listen.”
“I draw my stakes,” said Sancho, “and will retreat with this pasty to
the brook there, where I mean to victual myself for three days; for I
have heard my lord, Don Quixote, say that a knight-errant’s squire
should eat until he can hold no more, whenever he has the chance,
because it often happens them to get by accident into a wood so thick
that they cannot find a way out of it for six days; and if the man is
not well filled or his alforjas well stored, there he may stay, as very
often he does, turned into a dried mummy.”
“Thou art in the right of it, Sancho,” said Don Quixote; “go where thou
wilt and eat all thou canst, for I have had enough, and only want to
give my mind its refreshment, as I shall by listening to this good
fellow’s story.”
“It is what we shall all do,” said the canon; and then begged the
goatherd to begin the promised tale.
The goatherd gave the goat which he held by the horns a couple of slaps
on the back, saying, “Lie down here beside me, Spotty, for we have time
enough to return to our fold.” The goat seemed to understand him, for
as her master seated himself, she stretched herself quietly beside him
and looked up in his face to show him she was all attention to what he
was going to say, and then in these words he began his story.
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CHAPTER LI.
WHICH DEALS WITH WHAT THE GOATHERD TOLD THOSE WHO WERE CARRYING OFF DON
QUIXOTE
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Three leagues from this valley there is a village which, though small,
is one of the richest in all this neighbourhood, and in it there lived
a farmer, a very worthy man, and so much respected that, although to be
so is the natural consequence of being rich, he was even more respected
for his virtue than for the wealth he had acquired. But what made him
still more fortunate, as he said himself, was having a daughter of such
exceeding beauty, rare intelligence, gracefulness, and virtue, that
everyone who knew her and beheld her marvelled at the extraordinary
gifts with which heaven and nature had endowed her. As a child she was
beautiful, she continued to grow in beauty, and at the age of sixteen
she was most lovely. The fame of her beauty began to spread abroad
through all the villages around—but why do I say the villages around,
merely, when it spread to distant cities, and even made its way into
the halls of royalty and reached the ears of people of every class, who
came from all sides to see her as if to see something rare and curious,
or some wonder-working image?
Her father watched over her and she watched over herself; for there are
no locks, or guards, or bolts that can protect a young girl better than
her own modesty. The wealth of the father and the beauty of the
daughter led many neighbours as well as strangers to seek her for a
wife; but he, as one might well be who had the disposal of so rich a
jewel, was perplexed and unable to make up his mind to which of her
countless suitors he should entrust her. I was one among the many who
felt a desire so natural, and, as her father knew who I was, and I was
of the same town, of pure blood, in the bloom of life, and very rich in
possessions, I had great hopes of success. There was another of the
same place and qualifications who also sought her, and this made her
father’s choice hang in the balance, for he felt that on either of us
his daughter would be well bestowed; so to escape from this state of
perplexity he resolved to refer the matter to Leandra (for that is the
name of the rich damsel who has reduced me to misery), reflecting that
as we were both equal it would be best to leave it to his dear daughter
to choose according to her inclination—a course that is worthy of
imitation by all fathers who wish to settle their children in life. I
do not mean that they ought to leave them to make a choice of what is
contemptible and bad, but that they should place before them what is
good and then allow them to make a good choice as they please. I do not
know which Leandra chose; I only know her father put us both off with
the tender age of his daughter and vague words that neither bound him
nor dismissed us. My rival is called Anselmo and I myself Eugenio—that
you may know the names of the personages that figure in this tragedy,
the end of which is still in suspense, though it is plain to see it
must be disastrous.
About this time there arrived in our town one Vicente de la Roca, the
son of a poor peasant of the same town, the said Vicente having
returned from service as a soldier in Italy and divers other parts. A
captain who chanced to pass that way with his company had carried him
off from our village when he was a boy of about twelve years, and now
twelve years later the young man came back in a soldier’s uniform,
arrayed in a thousand colours, and all over glass trinkets and fine
steel chains. To-day he would appear in one gay dress, to-morrow in
another; but all flimsy and gaudy, of little substance and less worth.
The peasant folk, who are naturally malicious, and when they have
nothing to do can be malice itself, remarked all this, and took note of
his finery and jewellery, piece by piece, and discovered that he had
three suits of different colours, with garters and stockings to match;
but he made so many arrangements and combinations out of them, that if
they had not counted them, anyone would have sworn that he had made a
display of more than ten suits of clothes and twenty plumes. Do not
look upon all this that I am telling you about the clothes as uncalled
for or spun out, for they have a great deal to do with the story. He
used to seat himself on a bench under the great poplar in our plaza,
and there he would keep us all hanging open-mouthed on the stories he
told us of his exploits. There was no country on the face of the globe
he had not seen, nor battle he had not been engaged in; he had killed
more Moors than there are in Morocco and Tunis, and fought more single
combats, according to his own account, than Garcilaso, Diego García de
Paredes and a thousand others he named, and out of all he had come
victorious without losing a drop of blood. On the other hand he showed
marks of wounds, which, though they could not be made out, he said were
gunshot wounds received in divers encounters and actions. Lastly, with
monstrous impudence he used to say “you” to his equals and even those
who knew what he was, and declare that his arm was his father and his
deeds his pedigree, and that being a soldier he was as good as the king
himself. And to add to these swaggering ways he was a trifle of a
musician, and played the guitar with such a flourish that some said he
made it speak; nor did his accomplishments end here, for he was
something of a poet too, and on every trifle that happened in the town
he made a ballad a league long.
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This soldier, then, that I have described, this Vicente de la Roca,
this bravo, gallant, musician, poet, was often seen and watched by
Leandra from a window of her house which looked out on the plaza. The
glitter of his showy attire took her fancy, his ballads bewitched her
(for he gave away twenty copies of every one he made), the tales of his
exploits which he told about himself came to her ears; and in short, as
the devil no doubt had arranged it, she fell in love with him before
the presumption of making love to her had suggested itself to him; and
as in love-affairs none are more easily brought to an issue than those
which have the inclination of the lady for an ally, Leandra and Vicente
came to an understanding without any difficulty; and before any of her
numerous suitors had any suspicion of her design, she had already
carried it into effect, having left the house of her dearly beloved
father (for mother she had none), and disappeared from the village with
the soldier, who came more triumphantly out of this enterprise than out
of any of the large number he laid claim to. All the village and all
who heard of it were amazed at the affair; I was aghast, Anselmo
thunderstruck, her father full of grief, her relations indignant, the
authorities all in a ferment, the officers of the Brotherhood in arms.
They scoured the roads, they searched the woods and all quarters, and
at the end of three days they found the flighty Leandra in a mountain
cave, stript to her shift, and robbed of all the money and precious
jewels she had carried away from home with her.
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They brought her back to her unhappy father, and questioned her as to
her misfortune, and she confessed without pressure that Vicente de la
Roca had deceived her, and under promise of marrying her had induced
her to leave her father’s house, as he meant to take her to the richest
and most delightful city in the whole world, which was Naples; and that
she, ill-advised and deluded, had believed him, and robbed her father,
and handed over all to him the night she disappeared; and that he had
carried her away to a rugged mountain and shut her up in the cave where
they had found her. She said, moreover, that the soldier, without
robbing her of her honour, had taken from her everything she had, and
made off, leaving her in the cave, a thing that still further surprised
everybody. It was not easy for us to credit the young man’s continence,
but she asserted it with such earnestness that it helped to console her
distressed father, who thought nothing of what had been taken since the
jewel that once lost can never be recovered had been left to his
daughter. The same day that Leandra made her appearance her father
removed her from our sight and took her away to shut her up in a
convent in a town near this, in the hope that time may wear away some
of the disgrace she has incurred. Leandra’s youth furnished an excuse
for her fault, at least with those to whom it was of no consequence
whether she was good or bad; but those who knew her shrewdness and
intelligence did not attribute her misdemeanour to ignorance but to
wantonness and the natural disposition of women, which is for the most
part flighty and ill-regulated.
Leandra withdrawn from sight, Anselmo’s eyes grew blind, or at any rate
found nothing to look at that gave them any pleasure, and mine were in
darkness without a ray of light to direct them to anything enjoyable
while Leandra was away. Our melancholy grew greater, our patience grew
less; we cursed the soldier’s finery and railed at the carelessness of
Leandra’s father. At last Anselmo and I agreed to leave the village and
come to this valley; and, he feeding a great flock of sheep of his own,
and I a large herd of goats of mine, we pass our life among the trees,
giving vent to our sorrows, together singing the fair Leandra’s
praises, or upbraiding her, or else sighing alone, and to heaven
pouring forth our complaints in solitude. Following our example, many
more of Leandra’s lovers have come to these rude mountains and adopted
our mode of life, and they are so numerous that one would fancy the
place had been turned into the pastoral Arcadia, so full is it of
shepherds and sheep-folds; nor is there a spot in it where the name of
the fair Leandra is not heard. Here one curses her and calls her
capricious, fickle, and immodest, there another condemns her as frail
and frivolous; this pardons and absolves her, that spurns and reviles
her; one extols her beauty, another assails her character, and in short
all abuse her, and all adore her, and to such a pitch has this general
infatuation gone that there are some who complain of her scorn without
ever having exchanged a word with her, and even some that bewail and
mourn the raging fever of jealousy, for which she never gave anyone
cause, for, as I have already said, her misconduct was known before her
passion. There is no nook among the rocks, no brookside, no shade
beneath the trees that is not haunted by some shepherd telling his woes
to the breezes; wherever there is an echo it repeats the name of
Leandra; the mountains ring with “Leandra,” “Leandra” murmur the
brooks, and Leandra keeps us all bewildered and bewitched, hoping
without hope and fearing without knowing what we fear. Of all this
silly set the one that shows the least and also the most sense is my
rival Anselmo, for having so many other things to complain of, he only
complains of separation, and to the accompaniment of a rebeck, which he
plays admirably, he sings his complaints in verses that show his
ingenuity. I follow another, easier, and to my mind wiser course, and
that is to rail at the frivolity of women, at their inconstancy, their
double dealing, their broken promises, their unkept pledges, and in
short the want of reflection they show in fixing their affections and
inclinations. This, sirs, was the reason of words and expressions I
made use of to this goat when I came up just now; for as she is a
female I have a contempt for her, though she is the best in all my
fold. This is the story I promised to tell you, and if I have been
tedious in telling it, I will not be slow to serve you; my hut is close
by, and I have fresh milk and dainty cheese there, as well as a variety
of toothsome fruit, no less pleasing to the eye than to the palate.
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CHAPTER LII.
OF THE QUARREL THAT DON QUIXOTE HAD WITH THE GOATHERD, TOGETHER WITH
THE RARE ADVENTURE OF THE PENITENTS, WHICH WITH AN EXPENDITURE OF SWEAT
HE BROUGHT TO A HAPPY CONCLUSION
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The goatherd’s tale gave great satisfaction to all the hearers, and the
canon especially enjoyed it, for he had remarked with particular
attention the manner in which it had been told, which was as unlike the
manner of a clownish goatherd as it was like that of a polished city
wit; and he observed that the curate had been quite right in saying
that the woods bred men of learning. They all offered their services to
Eugenio but he who showed himself most liberal in this way was Don
Quixote, who said to him, “Most assuredly, brother goatherd, if I found
myself in a position to attempt any adventure, I would, this very
instant, set out on your behalf, and would rescue Leandra from that
convent (where no doubt she is kept against her will), in spite of the
abbess and all who might try to prevent me, and would place her in your
hands to deal with her according to your will and pleasure, observing,
however, the laws of chivalry which lay down that no violence of any
kind is to be offered to any damsel. But I trust in God our Lord that
the might of one malignant enchanter may not prove so great but that
the power of another better disposed may prove superior to it, and then
I promise you my support and assistance, as I am bound to do by my
profession, which is none other than to give aid to the weak and
needy.”
The goatherd eyed him, and noticing Don Quixote’s sorry appearance and
looks, he was filled with wonder, and asked the barber, who was next
him, “Señor, who is this man who makes such a figure and talks in such
a strain?”
“Who should it be,” said the barber, “but the famous Don Quixote of La
Mancha, the undoer of injustice, the righter of wrongs, the protector
of damsels, the terror of giants, and the winner of battles?”
“That,” said the goatherd, “sounds like what one reads in the books of
the knights-errant, who did all that you say this man does; though it
is my belief that either you are joking, or else this gentleman has
empty lodgings in his head.”
“You are a great scoundrel,” said Don Quixote, “and it is you who are
empty and a fool. I am fuller than ever was the whoreson bitch that
bore you;” and passing from words to deeds, he caught up a loaf that
was near him and sent it full in the goatherd’s face, with such force
that he flattened his nose; but the goatherd, who did not understand
jokes, and found himself roughly handled in such good earnest, paying
no respect to carpet, tablecloth, or diners, sprang upon Don Quixote,
and seizing him by the throat with both hands would no doubt have
throttled him, had not Sancho Panza that instant come to the rescue,
and grasping him by the shoulders flung him down on the table, smashing
plates, breaking glasses, and upsetting and scattering everything on
it. Don Quixote, finding himself free, strove to get on top of the
goatherd, who, with his face covered with blood, and soundly kicked by
Sancho, was on all fours feeling about for one of the table-knives to
take a bloody revenge with. The canon and the curate, however,
prevented him, but the barber so contrived it that he got Don Quixote
under him, and rained down upon him such a shower of fisticuffs that
the poor knight’s face streamed with blood as freely as his own. The
canon and the curate were bursting with laughter, the officers were
capering with delight, and both the one and the other hissed them on as
they do dogs that are worrying one another in a fight. Sancho alone was
frantic, for he could not free himself from the grasp of one of the
canon’s servants, who kept him from going to his master’s assistance.
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At last, while they were all, with the exception of the two bruisers
who were mauling each other, in high glee and enjoyment, they heard a
trumpet sound a note so doleful that it made them all look in the
direction whence the sound seemed to come. But the one that was most
excited by hearing it was Don Quixote, who though sorely against his
will he was under the goatherd, and something more than pretty well
pummelled, said to him, “Brother devil (for it is impossible but that
thou must be one since thou hast had might and strength enough to
overcome mine), I ask thee to agree to a truce for but one hour for the
solemn note of yonder trumpet that falls on our ears seems to me to
summon me to some new adventure.” The goatherd, who was by this time
tired of pummelling and being pummelled, released him at once, and Don
Quixote rising to his feet and turning his eyes to the quarter where
the sound had been heard, suddenly saw coming down the slope of a hill
several men clad in white like penitents.
The fact was that the clouds had that year withheld their moisture from
the earth, and in all the villages of the district they were organising
processions, rogations, and penances, imploring God to open the hands
of his mercy and send the rain; and to this end the people of a village
that was hard by were going in procession to a holy hermitage there was
on one side of that valley. Don Quixote when he saw the strange garb of
the penitents, without reflecting how often he had seen it before, took
it into his head that this was a case of adventure, and that it fell to
him alone as a knight-errant to engage in it; and he was all the more
confirmed in this notion, by the idea that an image draped in black
they had with them was some illustrious lady that these villains and
discourteous thieves were carrying off by force. As soon as this
occurred to him he ran with all speed to Rocinante who was grazing at
large, and taking the bridle and the buckler from the saddle-bow, he
had him bridled in an instant, and calling to Sancho for his sword he
mounted Rocinante, braced his buckler on his arm, and in a loud voice
exclaimed to those who stood by, “Now, noble company, ye shall see how
important it is that there should be knights in the world professing
the order of knight-errantry; now, I say, ye shall see, by the
deliverance of that worthy lady who is borne captive there, whether
knights-errant deserve to be held in estimation,” and so saying he
brought his legs to bear on Rocinante—for he had no spurs—and at a full
canter (for in all this veracious history we never read of Rocinante
fairly galloping) set off to encounter the penitents, though the
curate, the canon, and the barber ran to prevent him. But it was out of
their power, nor did he even stop for the shouts of Sancho calling
after him, “Where are you going, Señor Don Quixote? What devils have
possessed you to set you on against our Catholic faith? Plague take me!
mind, that is a procession of penitents, and the lady they are carrying
on that stand there is the blessed image of the immaculate Virgin. Take
care what you are doing, señor, for this time it may be safely said you
don’t know what you are about.” Sancho laboured in vain, for his master
was so bent on coming to quarters with these sheeted figures and
releasing the lady in black that he did not hear a word; and even had
he heard, he would not have turned back if the king had ordered him. He
came up with the procession and reined in Rocinante, who was already
anxious enough to slacken speed a little, and in a hoarse, excited
voice he exclaimed, “You who hide your faces, perhaps because you are
not good subjects, pay attention and listen to what I am about to say
to you.” The first to halt were those who were carrying the image, and
one of the four ecclesiastics who were chanting the Litany, struck by
the strange figure of Don Quixote, the leanness of Rocinante, and the
other ludicrous peculiarities he observed, said in reply to him,
“Brother, if you have anything to say to us say it quickly, for these
brethren are whipping themselves, and we cannot stop, nor is it
reasonable we should stop to hear anything, unless indeed it is short
enough to be said in two words.”
“I will say it in one,” replied Don Quixote, “and it is this; that at
once, this very instant, ye release that fair lady whose tears and sad
aspect show plainly that ye are carrying her off against her will, and
that ye have committed some scandalous outrage against her; and I, who
was born into the world to redress all such like wrongs, will not
permit you to advance another step until you have restored to her the
liberty she pines for and deserves.”
From these words all the hearers concluded that he must be a madman,
and began to laugh heartily, and their laughter acted like gunpowder on
Don Quixote’s fury, for drawing his sword without another word he made
a rush at the stand. One of those who supported it, leaving the burden
to his comrades, advanced to meet him, flourishing a forked stick that
he had for propping up the stand when resting, and with this he caught
a mighty cut Don Quixote made at him that severed it in two; but with
the portion that remained in his hand he dealt such a thwack on the
shoulder of Don Quixote’s sword arm (which the buckler could not
protect against the clownish assault) that poor Don Quixote came to the
ground in a sad plight.
Sancho Panza, who was coming on close behind puffing and blowing,
seeing him fall, cried out to his assailant not to strike him again,
for he was a poor enchanted knight, who had never harmed anyone all the
days of his life; but what checked the clown was, not Sancho’s
shouting, but seeing that Don Quixote did not stir hand or foot; and
so, fancying he had killed him, he hastily hitched up his tunic under
his girdle and took to his heels across the country like a deer.
By this time all Don Quixote’s companions had come up to where he lay;
but the processionists seeing them come running, and with them the
officers of the Brotherhood with their crossbows, apprehended mischief,
and clustering round the image, raised their hoods, and grasped their
scourges, as the priests did their tapers, and awaited the attack,
resolved to defend themselves and even to take the offensive against
their assailants if they could. Fortune, however, arranged the matter
better than they expected, for all Sancho did was to fling himself on
his master’s body, raising over him the most doleful and laughable
lamentation that ever was heard, for he believed he was dead. The
curate was known to another curate who walked in the procession, and
their recognition of one another set at rest the apprehensions of both
parties; the first then told the other in two words who Don Quixote
was, and he and the whole troop of penitents went to see if the poor
gentleman was dead, and heard Sancho Panza saying, with tears in his
eyes, “Oh flower of chivalry, that with one blow of a stick hast ended
the course of thy well-spent life! Oh pride of thy race, honour and
glory of all La Mancha, nay, of all the world, that for want of thee
will be full of evil-doers, no longer in fear of punishment for their
misdeeds! Oh thou, generous above all the Alexanders, since for only
eight months of service thou hast given me the best island the sea
girds or surrounds! Humble with the proud, haughty with the humble,
encounterer of dangers, endurer of outrages, enamoured without reason,
imitator of the good, scourge of the wicked, enemy of the mean, in
short, knight-errant, which is all that can be said!”
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At the cries and moans of Sancho, Don Quixote came to himself, and the
first word he said was, “He who lives separated from you, sweetest
Dulcinea, has greater miseries to endure than these. Aid me, friend
Sancho, to mount the enchanted cart, for I am not in a condition to
press the saddle of Rocinante, as this shoulder is all knocked to
pieces.”
“That I will do with all my heart, señor,” said Sancho; “and let us
return to our village with these gentlemen, who seek your good, and
there we will prepare for making another sally, which may turn out more
profitable and creditable to us.”
“Thou art right, Sancho,” returned Don Quixote; “It will be wise to let
the malign influence of the stars which now prevails pass off.”
The canon, the curate, and the barber told him he would act very wisely
in doing as he said; and so, highly amused at Sancho Panza’s
simplicities, they placed Don Quixote in the cart as before. The
procession once more formed itself in order and proceeded on its road;
the goatherd took his leave of the party; the officers of the
Brotherhood declined to go any farther, and the curate paid them what
was due to them; the canon begged the curate to let him know how Don
Quixote did, whether he was cured of his madness or still suffered from
it, and then begged leave to continue his journey; in short, they all
separated and went their ways, leaving to themselves the curate and the
barber, Don Quixote, Sancho Panza, and the good Rocinante, who regarded
everything with as great resignation as his master. The carter yoked
his oxen and made Don Quixote comfortable on a truss of hay, and at his
usual deliberate pace took the road the curate directed, and at the end
of six days they reached Don Quixote’s village, and entered it about
the middle of the day, which it so happened was a Sunday, and the
people were all in the plaza, through which Don Quixote’s cart passed.
They all flocked to see what was in the cart, and when they recognised
their townsman they were filled with amazement, and a boy ran off to
bring the news to his housekeeper and his niece that their master and
uncle had come back all lean and yellow and stretched on a truss of hay
on an ox-cart. It was piteous to hear the cries the two good ladies
raised, how they beat their breasts and poured out fresh maledictions
on those accursed books of chivalry; all which was renewed when they
saw Don Quixote coming in at the gate.
At the news of Don Quixote’s arrival Sancho Panza’s wife came running,
for she by this time knew that her husband had gone away with him as
his squire, and on seeing Sancho, the first thing she asked him was if
the ass was well. Sancho replied that he was, better than his master
was.
“Thanks be to God,” said she, “for being so good to me; but now tell
me, my friend, what have you made by your squirings? What gown have you
brought me back? What shoes for your children?”
“I bring nothing of that sort, wife,” said Sancho; “though I bring
other things of more consequence and value.”
“I am very glad of that,” returned his wife; “show me these things of
more value and consequence, my friend; for I want to see them to cheer
my heart that has been so sad and heavy all these ages that you have
been away.”
“I will show them to you at home, wife,” said Sancho; “be content for
the present; for if it please God that we should again go on our
travels in search of adventures, you will soon see me a count, or
governor of an island, and that not one of those everyday ones, but the
best that is to be had.”
“Heaven grant it, husband,” said she, “for indeed we have need of it.
But tell me, what’s this about islands, for I don’t understand it?”
“Honey is not for the mouth of the ass,” returned Sancho; “all in good
time thou shalt see, wife—nay, thou wilt be surprised to hear thyself
called ‘your ladyship’ by all thy vassals.”
“What are you talking about, Sancho, with your ladyships, islands, and
vassals?” returned Teresa Panza—for so Sancho’s wife was called, though
they were not relations, for in La Mancha it is customary for wives to
take their husbands’ surnames.
“Don’t be in such a hurry to know all this, Teresa,” said Sancho; “it
is enough that I am telling you the truth, so shut your mouth. But I
may tell you this much by the way, that there is nothing in the world
more delightful than to be a person of consideration, squire to a
knight-errant, and a seeker of adventures. To be sure most of those one
finds do not end as pleasantly as one could wish, for out of a hundred,
ninety-nine will turn out cross and contrary. I know it by experience,
for out of some I came blanketed, and out of others belaboured. Still,
for all that, it is a fine thing to be on the look-out for what may
happen, crossing mountains, searching woods, climbing rocks, visiting
castles, putting up at inns, all at free quarters, and devil take the
maravedi to pay.”
While this conversation passed between Sancho Panza and his wife, Don
Quixote’s housekeeper and niece took him in and undressed him and laid
him in his old bed. He eyed them askance, and could not make out where
he was. The curate charged his niece to be very careful to make her
uncle comfortable and to keep a watch over him lest he should make his
escape from them again, telling her what they had been obliged to do to
bring him home. On this the pair once more lifted up their voices and
renewed their maledictions upon the books of chivalry, and implored
heaven to plunge the authors of such lies and nonsense into the midst
of the bottomless pit. They were, in short, kept in anxiety and dread
lest their uncle and master should give them the slip the moment he
found himself somewhat better, and as they feared so it fell out.
But the author of this history, though he has devoted research and
industry to the discovery of the deeds achieved by Don Quixote in his
third sally, has been unable to obtain any information respecting them,
at any rate derived from authentic documents; tradition has merely
preserved in the memory of La Mancha the fact that Don Quixote, the
third time he sallied forth from his home, betook himself to Saragossa,
where he was present at some famous jousts which came off in that city,
and that he had adventures there worthy of his valour and high
intelligence. Of his end and death he could learn no particulars, nor
would he have ascertained it or known of it, if good fortune had not
produced an old physician for him who had in his possession a leaden
box, which, according to his account, had been discovered among the
crumbling foundations of an ancient hermitage that was being rebuilt;
in which box were found certain parchment manuscripts in Gothic
character, but in Castilian verse, containing many of his achievements,
and setting forth the beauty of Dulcinea, the form of Rocinante, the
fidelity of Sancho Panza, and the burial of Don Quixote himself,
together with sundry epitaphs and eulogies on his life and character;
but all that could be read and deciphered were those which the
trustworthy author of this new and unparalleled history here presents.
And the said author asks of those that shall read it nothing in return
for the vast toil which it has cost him in examining and searching the
Manchegan archives in order to bring it to light, save that they give
him the same credit that people of sense give to the books of chivalry
that pervade the world and are so popular; for with this he will
consider himself amply paid and fully satisfied, and will be encouraged
to seek out and produce other histories, if not as truthful, at least
equal in invention and not less entertaining. The first words written
on the parchment found in the leaden box were these:
THE ACADEMICIANS OF ARGAMASILLA,
A VILLAGE OF LA MANCHA,
ON THE LIFE AND DEATH OF DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA,
HOC SCRIPSERUNT
MONICONGO, ACADEMICIAN OF ARGAMASILLA,
ON THE TOMB OF DON QUIXOTE
EPITAPH
The scatterbrain that gave La Mancha more
Rich spoils than Jason’s; who a point so keen
Had to his wit, and happier far had been
If his wit’s weathercock a blunter bore;
The arm renowned far as Gaeta’s shore,
Cathay, and all the lands that lie between;
The muse discreet and terrible in mien
As ever wrote on brass in days of yore;
He who surpassed the Amadises all,
And who as naught the Galaors accounted,
Supported by his love and gallantry:
Who made the Belianises sing small,
And sought renown on Rocinante mounted;
Here, underneath this cold stone, doth he lie.
PANIAGUADO, ACADEMICIAN OF ARGAMASILLA,
IN LAUDEM DULCINEAE DEL TOBOSO
SONNET
She, whose full features may be here descried,
High-bosomed, with a bearing of disdain,
Is Dulcinea, she for whom in vain
The great Don Quixote of La Mancha sighed.
For her, Toboso’s queen, from side to side
He traversed the grim sierra, the champaign
Of Aranjuez, and Montiel’s famous plain:
On Rocinante oft a weary ride.
Malignant planets, cruel destiny,
Pursued them both, the fair Manchegan dame,
And the unconquered star of chivalry.
Nor youth nor beauty saved her from the claim
Of death; he paid love’s bitter penalty,
And left the marble to preserve his name.
CAPRICHOSO, A MOST ACUTE ACADEMICIAN OF ARGAMASILLA,
IN PRAISE OF ROCINANTE, STEED OF DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA
SONNET
On that proud throne of diamantine sheen,
Which the blood-reeking feet of Mars degrade,
The mad Manchegan’s banner now hath been
By him in all its bravery displayed.
There hath he hung his arms and trenchant blade
Wherewith, achieving deeds till now unseen,
He slays, lays low, cleaves, hews; but art hath made
A novel style for our new paladin.
If Amadis be the proud boast of Gaul,
If by his progeny the fame of Greece
Through all the regions of the earth be spread,
Great Quixote crowned in grim Bellona’s hall
To-day exalts La Mancha over these,
And above Greece or Gaul she holds her head.
Nor ends his glory here, for his good steed
Doth Brillador and Bayard far exceed;
As mettled steeds compared with Rocinante,
The reputation they have won is scanty.
BURLADOR, ACADEMICIAN OF ARGAMASILLA,
ON SANCHO PANZA
SONNET
The worthy Sancho Panza here you see;
A great soul once was in that body small,
Nor was there squire upon this earthly ball
So plain and simple, or of guile so free.
Within an ace of being Count was he,
And would have been but for the spite and gall
Of this vile age, mean and illiberal,
That cannot even let a donkey be.
For mounted on an ass (excuse the word),
By Rocinante’s side this gentle squire
Was wont his wandering master to attend.
Delusive hopes that lure the common herd
With promises of ease, the heart’s desire,
In shadows, dreams, and smoke ye always end.
CACHIDIABLO, ACADEMICIAN OF ARGAMASILLA,
ON THE TOMB OF DON QUIXOTE
EPITAPH
The knight lies here below,
Ill-errant and bruised sore,
Whom Rocinante bore
In his wanderings to and fro.
By the side of the knight is laid
Stolid man Sancho too,
Than whom a squire more true
Was not in the esquire trade.
TIQUITOC, ACADEMICIAN OF ARGAMASILLA,
ON THE TOMB OF DULCINEA DEL TOBOSO
EPITAPH
Here Dulcinea lies.
Plump was she and robust:
Now she is ashes and dust:
The end of all flesh that dies.
A lady of high degree,
With the port of a lofty dame,
And the great Don Quixote’s flame,
And the pride of her village was she.
These were all the verses that could be deciphered; the rest, the
writing being worm-eaten, were handed over to one of the Academicians
to make out their meaning conjecturally. We have been informed that at
the cost of many sleepless nights and much toil he has succeeded, and
that he means to publish them in hopes of Don Quixote’s third sally.
_“Forse altro cantera con miglior plettro.”_
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Volume II
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DEDICATION OF VOLUME II.
TO THE COUNT OF LEMOS:
These days past, when sending Your Excellency my plays, that had
appeared in print before being shown on the stage, I said, if I
remember well, that Don Quixote was putting on his spurs to go and
render homage to Your Excellency. Now I say that “with his spurs, he is
on his way.” Should he reach destination methinks I shall have rendered
some service to Your Excellency, as from many parts I am urged to send
him off, so as to dispel the loathing and disgust caused by another Don
Quixote who, under the name of Second Part, has run masquerading
through the whole world. And he who has shown the greatest longing for
him has been the great Emperor of China, who wrote me a letter in
Chinese a month ago and sent it by a special courier. He asked me, or
to be truthful, he begged me to send him Don Quixote, for he intended
to found a college where the Spanish tongue would be taught, and it was
his wish that the book to be read should be the History of Don Quixote.
He also added that I should go and be the rector of this college. I
asked the bearer if His Majesty had afforded a sum in aid of my travel
expenses. He answered, “No, not even in thought.”
“Then, brother,” I replied, “you can return to your China, post haste
or at whatever haste you are bound to go, as I am not fit for so long a
travel and, besides being ill, I am very much without money, while
Emperor for Emperor and Monarch for Monarch, I have at Naples the great
Count of Lemos, who, without so many petty titles of colleges and
rectorships, sustains me, protects me and does me more favour than I
can wish for.”
Thus I gave him his leave and I beg mine from you, offering Your
Excellency the “Trabajos de Persiles y Sigismunda,” a book I shall
finish within four months, Deo volente, and which will be either the
worst or the best that has been composed in our language, I mean of
those intended for entertainment; at which I repent of having called it
the worst, for, in the opinion of friends, it is bound to attain the
summit of possible quality. May Your Excellency return in such health
that is wished you; Persiles will be ready to kiss your hand and I your
feet, being as I am, Your Excellency’s most humble servant.
From Madrid, this last day of October of the year one thousand six
hundred and fifteen.
At the service of Your Excellency:
MIGUEL DE CERVANTES SAAVEDRA
THE AUTHOR’S PREFACE
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God bless me, gentle (or it may be plebeian) reader, how eagerly must
thou be looking forward to this preface, expecting to find there
retaliation, scolding, and abuse against the author of the second Don
Quixote—I mean him who was, they say, begotten at Tordesillas and born
at Tarragona! Well then, the truth is, I am not going to give thee that
satisfaction; for, though injuries stir up anger in humbler breasts, in
mine the rule must admit of an exception. Thou wouldst have me call him
ass, fool, and malapert, but I have no such intention; let his offence
be his punishment, with his bread let him eat it, and there’s an end of
it. What I cannot help taking amiss is that he charges me with being
old and one-handed, as if it had been in my power to keep time from
passing over me, or as if the loss of my hand had been brought about in
some tavern, and not on the grandest occasion the past or present has
seen, or the future can hope to see. If my wounds have no beauty to the
beholder’s eye, they are, at least, honourable in the estimation of
those who know where they were received; for the soldier shows to
greater advantage dead in battle than alive in flight; and so strongly
is this my feeling, that if now it were proposed to perform an
impossibility for me, I would rather have had my share in that mighty
action, than be free from my wounds this minute without having been
present at it. Those the soldier shows on his face and breast are stars
that direct others to the heaven of honour and ambition of merited
praise; and moreover it is to be observed that it is not with grey
hairs that one writes, but with the understanding, and that commonly
improves with years. I take it amiss, too, that he calls me envious,
and explains to me, as if I were ignorant, what envy is; for really and
truly, of the two kinds there are, I only know that which is holy,
noble, and high-minded; and if that be so, as it is, I am not likely to
attack a priest, above all if, in addition, he holds the rank of
familiar of the Holy Office. And if he said what he did on account of
him on whose behalf it seems he spoke, he is entirely mistaken; for I
worship the genius of that person, and admire his works and his
unceasing and strenuous industry. After all, I am grateful to this
gentleman, the author, for saying that my novels are more satirical
than exemplary, but that they are good; for they could not be that
unless there was a little of everything in them.
I suspect thou wilt say that I am taking a very humble line, and
keeping myself too much within the bounds of my moderation, from a
feeling that additional suffering should not be inflicted upon a
sufferer, and that what this gentleman has to endure must doubtless be
very great, as he does not dare to come out into the open field and
broad daylight, but hides his name and disguises his country as if he
had been guilty of some lese majesty. If perchance thou shouldst come
to know him, tell him from me that I do not hold myself aggrieved; for
I know well what the temptations of the devil are, and that one of the
greatest is putting it into a man’s head that he can write and print a
book by which he will get as much fame as money, and as much money as
fame; and to prove it I will beg of you, in your own sprightly,
pleasant way, to tell him this story.
There was a madman in Seville who took to one of the drollest
absurdities and vagaries that ever madman in the world gave way to. It
was this: he made a tube of reed sharp at one end, and catching a dog
in the street, or wherever it might be, he with his foot held one of
its legs fast, and with his hand lifted up the other, and as best he
could fixed the tube where, by blowing, he made the dog as round as a
ball; then holding it in this position, he gave it a couple of slaps on
the belly, and let it go, saying to the bystanders (and there were
always plenty of them): “Do your worships think, now, that it is an
easy thing to blow up a dog?”—Does your worship think now, that it is
an easy thing to write a book?
And if this story does not suit him, you may, dear reader, tell him
this one, which is likewise of a madman and a dog.
In Cordova there was another madman, whose way it was to carry a piece
of marble slab or a stone, not of the lightest, on his head, and when
he came upon any unwary dog he used to draw close to him and let the
weight fall right on top of him; on which the dog in a rage, barking
and howling, would run three streets without stopping. It so happened,
however, that one of the dogs he discharged his load upon was a
cap-maker’s dog, of which his master was very fond. The stone came down
hitting it on the head, the dog raised a yell at the blow, the master
saw the affair and was wroth, and snatching up a measuring-yard rushed
out at the madman and did not leave a sound bone in his body, and at
every stroke he gave him he said, “You dog, you thief! my lurcher!
Don’t you see, you brute, that my dog is a lurcher?” and so, repeating
the word “lurcher” again and again, he sent the madman away beaten to a
jelly. The madman took the lesson to heart, and vanished, and for more
than a month never once showed himself in public; but after that he
came out again with his old trick and a heavier load than ever. He came
up to where there was a dog, and examining it very carefully without
venturing to let the stone fall, he said: “This is a lurcher; ware!” In
short, all the dogs he came across, be they mastiffs or terriers, he
said were lurchers; and he discharged no more stones. Maybe it will be
the same with this historian; that he will not venture another time to
discharge the weight of his wit in books, which, being bad, are harder
than stones. Tell him, too, that I do not care a farthing for the
threat he holds out to me of depriving me of my profit by means of his
book; for, to borrow from the famous interlude of “The Perendenga,” I
say in answer to him, “Long life to my lord the Veintiquatro, and
Christ be with us all.” Long life to the great Conde de Lemos, whose
Christian charity and well-known generosity support me against all the
strokes of my curst fortune; and long life to the supreme benevolence
of His Eminence of Toledo, Don Bernardo de Sandoval y Rojas; and what
matter if there be no printing-presses in the world, or if they print
more books against me than there are letters in the verses of Mingo
Revulgo! These two princes, unsought by any adulation or flattery of
mine, of their own goodness alone, have taken it upon them to show me
kindness and protect me, and in this I consider myself happier and
richer than if Fortune had raised me to her greatest height in the
ordinary way. The poor man may retain honour, but not the vicious;
poverty may cast a cloud over nobility, but cannot hide it altogether;
and as virtue of itself sheds a certain light, even though it be
through the straits and chinks of penury, it wins the esteem of lofty
and noble spirits, and in consequence their protection. Thou needst say
no more to him, nor will I say anything more to thee, save to tell thee
to bear in mind that this Second Part of “Don Quixote” which I offer
thee is cut by the same craftsman and from the same cloth as the First,
and that in it I present thee Don Quixote continued, and at length dead
and buried, so that no one may dare to bring forward any further
evidence against him, for that already produced is sufficient; and
suffice it, too, that some reputable person should have given an
account of all these shrewd lunacies of his without going into the
matter again; for abundance, even of good things, prevents them from
being valued; and scarcity, even in the case of what is bad, confers a
certain value. I was forgetting to tell thee that thou mayest expect
the “Persiles,” which I am now finishing, and also the Second Part of
“Galatea.”
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CHAPTER I.
OF THE INTERVIEW THE CURATE AND THE BARBER HAD WITH DON QUIXOTE ABOUT
HIS MALADY
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Cide Hamete Benengeli, in the Second Part of this history, and third
sally of Don Quixote, says that the curate and the barber remained
nearly a month without seeing him, lest they should recall or bring
back to his recollection what had taken place. They did not, however,
omit to visit his niece and housekeeper, and charge them to be careful
to treat him with attention, and give him comforting things to eat, and
such as were good for the heart and the brain, whence, it was plain to
see, all his misfortune proceeded. The niece and housekeeper replied
that they did so, and meant to do so with all possible care and
assiduity, for they could perceive that their master was now and then
beginning to show signs of being in his right mind. This gave great
satisfaction to the curate and the barber, for they concluded they had
taken the right course in carrying him off enchanted on the ox-cart, as
has been described in the First Part of this great as well as accurate
history, in the last chapter thereof. So they resolved to pay him a
visit and test the improvement in his condition, although they thought
it almost impossible that there could be any; and they agreed not to
touch upon any point connected with knight-errantry so as not to run
the risk of reopening wounds which were still so tender.
They came to see him consequently, and found him sitting up in bed in a
green baize waistcoat and a red Toledo cap, and so withered and dried
up that he looked as if he had been turned into a mummy. They were very
cordially received by him; they asked him after his health, and he
talked to them about himself very naturally and in very well-chosen
language. In the course of their conversation they fell to discussing
what they call State-craft and systems of government, correcting this
abuse and condemning that, reforming one practice and abolishing
another, each of the three setting up for a new legislator, a modern
Lycurgus, or a brand-new Solon; and so completely did they remodel the
State, that they seemed to have thrust it into a furnace and taken out
something quite different from what they had put in; and on all the
subjects they dealt with, Don Quixote spoke with such good sense that
the pair of examiners were fully convinced that he was quite recovered
and in his full senses.
The niece and housekeeper were present at the conversation and could
not find words enough to express their thanks to God at seeing their
master so clear in his mind; the curate, however, changing his original
plan, which was to avoid touching upon matters of chivalry, resolved to
test Don Quixote’s recovery thoroughly, and see whether it were genuine
or not; and so, from one subject to another, he came at last to talk of
the news that had come from the capital, and, among other things, he
said it was considered certain that the Turk was coming down with a
powerful fleet, and that no one knew what his purpose was, or when the
great storm would burst; and that all Christendom was in apprehension
of this, which almost every year calls us to arms, and that his Majesty
had made provision for the security of the coasts of Naples and Sicily
and the island of Malta.
To this Don Quixote replied, “His Majesty has acted like a prudent
warrior in providing for the safety of his realms in time, so that the
enemy may not find him unprepared; but if my advice were taken I would
recommend him to adopt a measure which at present, no doubt, his
Majesty is very far from thinking of.”
The moment the curate heard this he said to himself, “God keep thee in
his hand, poor Don Quixote, for it seems to me thou art precipitating
thyself from the height of thy madness into the profound abyss of thy
simplicity.”
But the barber, who had the same suspicion as the curate, asked Don
Quixote what would be his advice as to the measures that he said ought
to be adopted; for perhaps it might prove to be one that would have to
be added to the list of the many impertinent suggestions that people
were in the habit of offering to princes.
“Mine, master shaver,” said Don Quixote, “will not be impertinent, but,
on the contrary, pertinent.”
“I don’t mean that,” said the barber, “but that experience has shown
that all or most of the expedients which are proposed to his Majesty
are either impossible, or absurd, or injurious to the King and to the
kingdom.”
“Mine, however,” replied Don Quixote, “is neither impossible nor
absurd, but the easiest, the most reasonable, the readiest and most
expeditious that could suggest itself to any projector’s mind.”
“You take a long time to tell it, Señor Don Quixote,” said the curate.
“I don’t choose to tell it here, now,” said Don Quixote, “and have it
reach the ears of the lords of the council to-morrow morning, and some
other carry off the thanks and rewards of my trouble.”
“For my part,” said the barber, “I give my word here and before God
that I will not repeat what your worship says, to King, Rook or earthly
man—an oath I learned from the ballad of the curate, who, in the
prelude, told the king of the thief who had robbed him of the hundred
gold crowns and his pacing mule.”
“I am not versed in stories,” said Don Quixote; “but I know the oath is
a good one, because I know the barber to be an honest fellow.”
“Even if he were not,” said the curate, “I will go bail and answer for
him that in this matter he will be as silent as a dummy, under pain of
paying any penalty that may be pronounced.”
“And who will be security for you, señor curate?” said Don Quixote.
“My profession,” replied the curate, “which is to keep secrets.”
“Ods body!” said Don Quixote at this, “what more has his Majesty to do
but to command, by public proclamation, all the knights-errant that are
scattered over Spain to assemble on a fixed day in the capital, for
even if no more than half a dozen come, there may be one among them who
alone will suffice to destroy the entire might of the Turk. Give me
your attention and follow me. Is it, pray, any new thing for a single
knight-errant to demolish an army of two hundred thousand men, as if
they all had but one throat or were made of sugar paste? Nay, tell me,
how many histories are there filled with these marvels? If only (in an
evil hour for me: I don’t speak for anyone else) the famous Don
Belianis were alive now, or anyone of the innumerable progeny of Amadis
of Gaul! If any these were alive to-day, and were to come face to face
with the Turk, by my faith, I would not give much for the Turk’s
chance. But God will have regard for his people, and will provide
someone, who, if not so valiant as the knights-errant of yore, at least
will not be inferior to them in spirit; but God knows what I mean, and
I say no more.”
“Alas!” exclaimed the niece at this, “may I die if my master does not
want to turn knight-errant again;” to which Don Quixote replied, “A
knight-errant I shall die, and let the Turk come down or go up when he
likes, and in as strong force as he can, once more I say, God knows
what I mean.” But here the barber said, “I ask your worships to give me
leave to tell a short story of something that happened in Seville,
which comes so pat to the purpose just now that I should like greatly
to tell it.” Don Quixote gave him leave, and the rest prepared to
listen, and he began thus:
“In the madhouse at Seville there was a man whom his relations had
placed there as being out of his mind. He was a graduate of Osuna in
canon law; but even if he had been of Salamanca, it was the opinion of
most people that he would have been mad all the same. This graduate,
after some years of confinement, took it into his head that he was sane
and in his full senses, and under this impression wrote to the
Archbishop, entreating him earnestly, and in very correct language, to
have him released from the misery in which he was living; for by God’s
mercy he had now recovered his lost reason, though his relations, in
order to enjoy his property, kept him there, and, in spite of the
truth, would make him out to be mad until his dying day. The
Archbishop, moved by repeated sensible, well-written letters, directed
one of his chaplains to make inquiry of the madhouse as to the truth of
the licentiate’s statements, and to have an interview with the madman
himself, and, if it should appear that he was in his senses, to take
him out and restore him to liberty. The chaplain did so, and the
governor assured him that the man was still mad, and that though he
often spoke like a highly intelligent person, he would in the end break
out into nonsense that in quantity and quality counterbalanced all the
sensible things he had said before, as might be easily tested by
talking to him. The chaplain resolved to try the experiment, and
obtaining access to the madman conversed with him for an hour or more,
during the whole of which time he never uttered a word that was
incoherent or absurd, but, on the contrary, spoke so rationally that
the chaplain was compelled to believe him to be sane. Among other
things, he said the governor was against him, not to lose the presents
his relations made him for reporting him still mad but with lucid
intervals; and that the worst foe he had in his misfortune was his
large property; for in order to enjoy it his enemies disparaged and
threw doubts upon the mercy our Lord had shown him in turning him from
a brute beast into a man. In short, he spoke in such a way that he cast
suspicion on the governor, and made his relations appear covetous and
heartless, and himself so rational that the chaplain determined to take
him away with him that the Archbishop might see him, and ascertain for
himself the truth of the matter. Yielding to this conviction, the
worthy chaplain begged the governor to have the clothes in which the
licentiate had entered the house given to him. The governor again bade
him beware of what he was doing, as the licentiate was beyond a doubt
still mad; but all his cautions and warnings were unavailing to
dissuade the chaplain from taking him away. The governor, seeing that
it was the order of the Archbishop, obeyed, and they dressed the
licentiate in his own clothes, which were new and decent. He, as soon
as he saw himself clothed like one in his senses, and divested of the
appearance of a madman, entreated the chaplain to permit him in charity
to go and take leave of his comrades the madmen. The chaplain said he
would go with him to see what madmen there were in the house; so they
went upstairs, and with them some of those who were present.
Approaching a cage in which there was a furious madman, though just at
that moment calm and quiet, the licentiate said to him, ‘Brother, think
if you have any commands for me, for I am going home, as God has been
pleased, in his infinite goodness and mercy, without any merit of mine,
to restore me my reason. I am now cured and in my senses, for with
God’s power nothing is impossible. Have strong hope and trust in him,
for as he has restored me to my original condition, so likewise he will
restore you if you trust in him. I will take care to send you some good
things to eat; and be sure you eat them; for I would have you know I am
convinced, as one who has gone through it, that all this madness of
ours comes of having the stomach empty and the brains full of wind.
Take courage! take courage! for despondency in misfortune breaks down
health and brings on death.’
“To all these words of the licentiate another madman in a cage opposite
that of the furious one was listening; and raising himself up from an
old mat on which he lay stark naked, he asked in a loud voice who it
was that was going away cured and in his senses. The licentiate
answered, ‘It is I, brother, who am going; I have now no need to remain
here any longer, for which I return infinite thanks to Heaven that has
had so great mercy upon me.’
“‘Mind what you are saying, licentiate; don’t let the devil deceive
you,’ replied the madman. ‘Keep quiet, stay where you are, and you will
save yourself the trouble of coming back.’
“‘I know I am cured,’ returned the licentiate, ‘and that I shall not
have to go stations again.’
“‘You cured!’ said the madman; ‘well, we shall see; God be with you;
but I swear to you by Jupiter, whose majesty I represent on earth, that
for this crime alone, which Seville is committing to-day in releasing
you from this house, and treating you as if you were in your senses, I
shall have to inflict such a punishment on it as will be remembered for
ages and ages, amen. Dost thou not know, thou miserable little
licentiate, that I can do it, being, as I say, Jupiter the Thunderer,
who hold in my hands the fiery bolts with which I am able and am wont
to threaten and lay waste the world? But in one way only will I punish
this ignorant town, and that is by not raining upon it, nor on any part
of its district or territory, for three whole years, to be reckoned
from the day and moment when this threat is pronounced. Thou free, thou
cured, thou in thy senses! and I mad, I disordered, I bound! I will as
soon think of sending rain as of hanging myself.
“Those present stood listening to the words and exclamations of the
madman; but our licentiate, turning to the chaplain and seizing him by
the hands, said to him, ‘Be not uneasy, señor; attach no importance to
what this madman has said; for if he is Jupiter and will not send rain,
I, who am Neptune, the father and god of the waters, will rain as often
as it pleases me and may be needful.’
“The governor and the bystanders laughed, and at their laughter the
chaplain was half ashamed, and he replied, ‘For all that, Señor
Neptune, it will not do to vex Señor Jupiter; remain where you are, and
some other day, when there is a better opportunity and more time, we
will come back for you.’ So they stripped the licentiate, and he was
left where he was; and that’s the end of the story.”
“So that’s the story, master barber,” said Don Quixote, “which came in
so pat to the purpose that you could not help telling it? Master
shaver, master shaver! how blind is he who cannot see through a sieve.
Is it possible that you do not know that comparisons of wit with wit,
valour with valour, beauty with beauty, birth with birth, are always
odious and unwelcome? I, master barber, am not Neptune, the god of the
waters, nor do I try to make anyone take me for an astute man, for I am
not one. My only endeavour is to convince the world of the mistake it
makes in not reviving in itself the happy time when the order of
knight-errantry was in the field. But our depraved age does not deserve
to enjoy such a blessing as those ages enjoyed when knights-errant took
upon their shoulders the defence of kingdoms, the protection of
damsels, the succour of orphans and minors, the chastisement of the
proud, and the recompense of the humble. With the knights of these
days, for the most part, it is the damask, brocade, and rich stuffs
they wear, that rustle as they go, not the chain mail of their armour;
no knight now-a-days sleeps in the open field exposed to the inclemency
of heaven, and in full panoply from head to foot; no one now takes a
nap, as they call it, without drawing his feet out of the stirrups, and
leaning upon his lance, as the knights-errant used to do; no one now,
issuing from the wood, penetrates yonder mountains, and then treads the
barren, lonely shore of the sea—mostly a tempestuous and stormy one—and
finding on the beach a little bark without oars, sail, mast, or
tackling of any kind, in the intrepidity of his heart flings himself
into it and commits himself to the wrathful billows of the deep sea,
that one moment lift him up to heaven and the next plunge him into the
depths; and opposing his breast to the irresistible gale, finds
himself, when he least expects it, three thousand leagues and more away
from the place where he embarked; and leaping ashore in a remote and
unknown land has adventures that deserve to be written, not on
parchment, but on brass. But now sloth triumphs over energy, indolence
over exertion, vice over virtue, arrogance over courage, and theory
over practice in arms, which flourished and shone only in the golden
ages and in knights-errant. For tell me, who was more virtuous and more
valiant than the famous Amadis of Gaul? Who more discreet than Palmerin
of England? Who more gracious and easy than Tirante el Blanco? Who more
courtly than Lisuarte of Greece? Who more slashed or slashing than Don
Belianis? Who more intrepid than Perion of Gaul? Who more ready to face
danger than Felixmarte of Hircania? Who more sincere than Esplandian?
Who more impetuous than Don Cirongilio of Thrace? Who more bold than
Rodamonte? Who more prudent than King Sobrino? Who more daring than
Reinaldos? Who more invincible than Roland? and who more gallant and
courteous than Ruggiero, from whom the dukes of Ferrara of the present
day are descended, according to Turpin in his ‘Cosmography.’ All these
knights, and many more that I could name, señor curate, were
knights-errant, the light and glory of chivalry. These, or such as
these, I would have to carry out my plan, and in that case his Majesty
would find himself well served and would save great expense, and the
Turk would be left tearing his beard. And so I will stay where I am, as
the chaplain does not take me away; and if Jupiter, as the barber has
told us, will not send rain, here am I, and I will rain when I please.
I say this that Master Basin may know that I understand him.”
“Indeed, Señor Don Quixote,” said the barber, “I did not mean it in
that way, and, so help me God, my intention was good, and your worship
ought not to be vexed.”
“As to whether I ought to be vexed or not,” returned Don Quixote, “I
myself am the best judge.”
Hereupon the curate observed, “I have hardly said a word as yet; and I
would gladly be relieved of a doubt, arising from what Don Quixote has
said, that worries and works my conscience.”
“The señor curate has leave for more than that,” returned Don Quixote,
“so he may declare his doubt, for it is not pleasant to have a doubt on
one’s conscience.”
“Well then, with that permission,” said the curate, “I say my doubt is
that, all I can do, I cannot persuade myself that the whole pack of
knights-errant you, Señor Don Quixote, have mentioned, were really and
truly persons of flesh and blood, that ever lived in the world; on the
contrary, I suspect it to be all fiction, fable, and falsehood, and
dreams told by men awakened from sleep, or rather still half asleep.”
“That is another mistake,” replied Don Quixote, “into which many have
fallen who do not believe that there ever were such knights in the
world, and I have often, with divers people and on divers occasions,
tried to expose this almost universal error to the light of truth.
Sometimes I have not been successful in my purpose, sometimes I have,
supporting it upon the shoulders of the truth; which truth is so clear
that I can almost say I have with my own eyes seen Amadis of Gaul, who
was a man of lofty stature, fair complexion, with a handsome though
black beard, of a countenance between gentle and stern in expression,
sparing of words, slow to anger, and quick to put it away from him; and
as I have depicted Amadis, so I could, I think, portray and describe
all the knights-errant that are in all the histories in the world; for
by the perception I have that they were what their histories describe,
and by the deeds they did and the dispositions they displayed, it is
possible, with the aid of sound philosophy, to deduce their features,
complexion, and stature.”
“How big, in your worship’s opinion, may the giant Morgante have been,
Señor Don Quixote?” asked the barber.
“With regard to giants,” replied Don Quixote, “opinions differ as to
whether there ever were any or not in the world; but the Holy
Scripture, which cannot err by a jot from the truth, shows us that
there were, when it gives us the history of that big Philistine,
Goliath, who was seven cubits and a half in height, which is a huge
size. Likewise, in the island of Sicily, there have been found
leg-bones and arm-bones so large that their size makes it plain that
their owners were giants, and as tall as great towers; geometry puts
this fact beyond a doubt. But, for all that, I cannot speak with
certainty as to the size of Morgante, though I suspect he cannot have
been very tall; and I am inclined to be of this opinion because I find
in the history in which his deeds are particularly mentioned, that he
frequently slept under a roof and as he found houses to contain him, it
is clear that his bulk could not have been anything excessive.”
“That is true,” said the curate, and yielding to the enjoyment of
hearing such nonsense, he asked him what was his notion of the features
of Reinaldos of Montalban, and Don Roland and the rest of the Twelve
Peers of France, for they were all knights-errant.
“As for Reinaldos,” replied Don Quixote, “I venture to say that he was
broad-faced, of ruddy complexion, with roguish and somewhat prominent
eyes, excessively punctilious and touchy, and given to the society of
thieves and scapegraces. With regard to Roland, or Rotolando, or
Orlando (for the histories call him by all these names), I am of
opinion, and hold, that he was of middle height, broad-shouldered,
rather bow-legged, swarthy-complexioned, red-bearded, with a hairy body
and a severe expression of countenance, a man of few words, but very
polite and well-bred.”
“If Roland was not a more graceful person than your worship has
described,” said the curate, “it is no wonder that the fair Lady
Angelica rejected him and left him for the gaiety, liveliness, and
grace of that budding-bearded little Moor to whom she surrendered
herself; and she showed her sense in falling in love with the gentle
softness of Medoro rather than the roughness of Roland.”
“That Angelica, señor curate,” returned Don Quixote, “was a giddy
damsel, flighty and somewhat wanton, and she left the world as full of
her vagaries as of the fame of her beauty. She treated with scorn a
thousand gentlemen, men of valour and wisdom, and took up with a
smooth-faced sprig of a page, without fortune or fame, except such
reputation for gratitude as the affection he bore his friend got for
him. The great poet who sang her beauty, the famous Ariosto, not caring
to sing her adventures after her contemptible surrender (which probably
were not over and above creditable), dropped her where he says:
How she received the sceptre of Cathay,
Some bard of defter quill may sing some day;
and this was no doubt a kind of prophecy, for poets are also called
_vates_, that is to say diviners; and its truth was made plain; for
since then a famous Andalusian poet has lamented and sung her tears,
and another famous and rare poet, a Castilian, has sung her beauty.”
“Tell me, Señor Don Quixote,” said the barber here, “among all those
who praised her, has there been no poet to write a satire on this Lady
Angelica?”
“I can well believe,” replied Don Quixote, “that if Sacripante or
Roland had been poets they would have given the damsel a trimming; for
it is naturally the way with poets who have been scorned and rejected
by their ladies, whether fictitious or not, in short by those whom they
select as the ladies of their thoughts, to avenge themselves in satires
and libels—a vengeance, to be sure, unworthy of generous hearts; but up
to the present I have not heard of any defamatory verse against the
Lady Angelica, who turned the world upside down.”
“Strange,” said the curate; but at this moment they heard the
housekeeper and the niece, who had previously withdrawn from the
conversation, exclaiming aloud in the courtyard, and at the noise they
all ran out.
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