[14]Some one had published a book which he called theSecond Part of Don Quixote, before our author had printed this.
[14]Some one had published a book which he called theSecond Part of Don Quixote, before our author had printed this.
While Don Quixote was at supper with the gentlemen, Don John asked him when he heard of the lady Dulcinea del Toboso, and whether she still retained a grateful sense of the love and constancy of Sigñor Don Quixote. "She does," answered Don Quixote, "and my thoughts are more fixed upon her than ever; our correspondence is after the old fashion, not frequent; and, alas,her beauty is transformed into the homely appearance of a female rustic." And with that he repeated the story of her enchantment, with what had befallen him in the cavern of Montesinos, and the means that the sage Merlin had prescribed to free her from enchantment. The gentlemen were extremely pleased to hear from Don Quixote's own mouth the strange passages of his history; equally wondering at the nature of his extravagances and his elegant manner of relating them. One minute they looked upon him to be in his senses, and the next they thought he had lost them all; so that they could not resolve what degree to assign him between madness and sound judgment.
They then asked him which way he was travelling? He told them he was for Saragosa, to make one at the tournaments held in that city once a year for the prize of armour. Don John acquainted him, that the pretended second part of his history gave an account how Don Quixote, whoever he was, had been at Saragosa, at a public running at the ring, the description of which was wretched and defective in the contrivance, mean and low in the style and expression, and miserably poor in devices, all made up of foolish idle stuff. "For that reason," said Don Quixote, "I will not set a foot in Saragosa; and so the world shall see what a notorious lie this new historian is guilty of, and all mankind shall perceive I am not the Don Quixote he speaks of." "You do very well," said Don Jeronimo; "besides, there is another tournament at Barcelona, where you may signalise your valour." "I design to do so," replied Don Quixote; "and so, gentlemen, give me leave to bid you good night, and permit me to go to bed, for it is time; and pray place me in the number of your best friends and most faithful servants."
Having taken leave of one another, Don Quixote and Sancho retired to their chamber, leaving the two strangers in admiration to think what a medley the knight had made of good sense and extravagance; but fully satisfied, however, that these two persons were the true Don Quixote and Sancho, and not those obtruded upon the public by the Arragonian author.
Early in the morning Don Quixote got up, and knocking at a thin wall that parted his chamber from that of the gentlemen, he took his leave of them. Sancho paid the host nobly, but advised him either to keep better provisions in his inn, or to commend it less.
What happened to Don Quixote going to Barcelona.
Themorning was cool, and seemed to promise a temperate day, when Don Quixote left the inn, having first informed himselfwhich was the readiest way to Barcelona; for he was resolved he would not so much as see Saragosa, that he might prove that new author a liar, who, as he was told, had so much misrepresented him in the pretended second part of his history. For the space of six days they travelled without meeting any adventure worthy of memory; but the seventh, having lost their way, and being overtaken by the night, they were obliged to stop in a thicket of oaks or cork-trees. There both dismounted; and laying themselves down at the foot of the trees, Sancho, who had eaten heartily that day, easily resigned himself into the arms of sleep. But Don Quixote, whom his chimeras kept awake much more than hunger, could not so much as close his eyes; his working thoughts being hurried to a thousand several places. This time he fancied himself in Montesinos' cave; fancied he saw his Dulcinea, perverted as she was into a country hoyden, jump at a single leap upon her ass colt. The next moment he thought he heard the sage Merlin's voice in awful words relate the means required to effect her disenchantment. Presently a fit of despair seized him; he was enraged to think of Sancho's remissness and want of charity,—the squire having not given himself above five lashes, a small and inconsiderable number in proportion to the number still behind. This reflection so aggravated his vexation, that he could not forbear thinking on some extraordinary methods. If Alexander the Great, thought he, when he could not untie the Gordian knot, said, it is the same thing to cut or to undo, and so slashed it asunder, and yet became the sovereign of the world, why may not I free Dulcinea from enchantment by lashing Sancho myself, whether he will or no? For, if the condition of this remedy consists in Sancho's receiving three thousand and odd lashes, what does it signify to me whether he gives himself those blows, or another gives them him, since the stress lies upon his receiving them, by what means soever they are given? Full of that conceit, he came up to Sancho, having first taken the reins of Rozinante's bridle, and fitted them to his purpose of lashing him with them. Sancho, however, soon started out of his sleep, and was thoroughly awake in an instant. "What is here?" cried he. "It is I," answered Don Quixote, "I am come to repair thy negligence, and to seek the remedy of my torments. I am come to whip thee, Sancho, and to discharge, in part at least, that debt for which thou standest engaged. Dulcinea perishes, while thou livest careless of her fate; and therefore I am resolved, while we are here alone in this recess, to give thee at least two thousand stripes." "Hold you there," quoth Sancho; "pray be quiet, will you?—let me alone, or I protest deaf men shall hear us! The strokes I am to give myself are to be voluntary, not forced; and at this time I have no mind to be whipped at all: let it suffice that I promise you to do so when the humour takes me." "No, Sancho," said Don Quixote; "there is no trusting to thy courtesy,for thou art hard-hearted, and, though a peasant, of very tender flesh." He then struggled with Sancho; upon which he jumped up, threw his arms about the Don, tripped up his heels, and laid him flat on his back, whereupon he held his hands down so fast that he could not stir and scarcely could breathe. "How, traitor," exclaimed the knight, "dost thou rebel against thy natural lord?—dost thou raise thy hand against him who feeds thee?" "I neither raise up nor pull down," answered Sancho; "I only defend myself, who am my own lord. If your worship will promise me to let me alone, and not talk about whipping at present, I will set you at liberty: if not, 'here thou diest, traitor, enemy to Donna Sancha.'" Don Quixote gave him the promise he desired, and swore by the life of his best thoughts he would not touch a hair of his garment, but leave the whipping entirely to his own discretion.
Sancho now removed to another place; and, as he was going to lay himself under another tree, he thought something touched his head; and, reaching up his hands, he felt a couple of dangling feet, with hose and shoes. Trembling with fear, he moved on a little further, but was incommoded by other legs; upon which he called to his master for help. Don Quixote went up to him, and asked him what was the matter; when Sancho told him that all the trees were full of men's feet and legs. Don Quixote felt them, and immediately guessed the cause; he said, "Be not afraid, Sancho; doubtless these are the legs of robbers and banditti, who have been punished for their crimes: for here the officers of justice hang them by scores at a time, when they can lay hold of them; and, from this circumstance, I conclude we are not far from Barcelona." In truth, Don Quixote was right in his conjecture; for when day began to dawn, they plainly saw that the legs they had felt in the dark belonged to the bodies of thieves.
But if they were alarmed at these dead banditti, how much more were they disturbed at being suddenly surrounded by more than forty of their living comrades, who commanded them to stand, and not to move till their captain came up. Don Quixote was on foot, his horse unbridled, his lance leaning against a tree at some distance,—in short, being defenceless, he thought it best to cross his hands, hang down his head, and reserve himself for better occasions. The robbers, however, were not idle, but immediately fell to work upon Dapple, and, in a trice, emptied both wallet and cloak-bag. Fortunately for Sancho, he had secured the crowns given him by the duke, with his other money, in a belt which he wore about his waist; nevertheless they would not have escaped the searching eyes of these good people, who spare not even what is hid between the flesh and the skin, had they not been checked by the arrival of their captain. His age seemed to be about four-and-thirty, his body was robust, his stature tall, his visage austere, and his complexion swarthy; he wasmounted upon a powerful steed, clad in a coat of steel, and his belt was stuck round with pistols. Observing that his squires (for so they call men of their vocation) were about to rifle Sancho, he commanded them to forbear, and was instantly obeyed; and thus the girdle escaped. He wondered to see a lance standing against a tree, a target on the ground, and Don Quixote in armour and pensive, with the most sad and melancholy countenance that sadness itself could frame. Going up to the knight, he said, "Be not so dejected, good sir, for you are not fallen into the hands of a cruel Osiris, but into those of Roque Guinart, who has more of compassion in his nature than cruelty." "My dejection," answered Don Quixote, "is not on account of having fallen into your hands, O valorous Roque, whose fame extends over the whole earth, but for my negligence in having suffered myself to be surprised by your soldiers, contrary to the bounden duty of a knight-errant, which requires that I should be continually on the alert, and, at all hours, my own sentinel; for, let me tell you, illustrious Roque, had they met me on horseback, with my lance and my target, they would have found it no very easy task to make me yield. Know, sir, I am Don Quixote de la Mancha, he with whose exploits the whole globe resounds." Roque Guinart presently perceived Don Quixote's infirmity, and that it had in it more of madness than valour; and, though he had sometimes heard his name mentioned, he always thought that what had been said of him was a fiction; conceiving that such a character could not exist: he was therefore delighted with this meeting, as he might now know, from his own observation, what degree of credit was really due to the reports in circulation. "Be not concerned," said Roque, addressing himself to Don Quixote, "nor tax fortune with unkindness; by thus stumbling, you may chance to stand more firmly than ever: for Heaven, by strange and circuitous ways, incomprehensible to men, is wont to raise the fallen, and enrich the needy."
Don Quixote was about to return his thanks for this courteous reception, when suddenly a noise was heard near them, like the trampling of many horses; but it was caused by one only, upon which came, at full speed, a youth, seemingly about twenty years of age, clad in green damask edged with gold lace, trousers, and a loose coat; his hat cocked in the Walloon fashion, with boots, spurs, dagger, and gold-hilted sword; a small carabine in his hand, and a brace of pistols by his side. Roque, hearing the noise of a horse, turned his head and observed this handsome youth advancing towards him: "Valiant Roque," said the cavalier, "you are the person I have been seeking; for with you I hope to find some comfort, though not a remedy, in my afflictions. Not to keep you in suspense, because I perceive that you do not know me, I will tell you who I am. I am Claudia Jeronima, daughter of Simon Forte, your intimate friend, and the particular enemyof Clauquel Torellas, who is also yours, being of the faction which is adverse to you. You know, too, that Torellas has a son, called Don Vincente de Torellas,—at least so he was called not two hours ago. That son of his—to shorten the story of my misfortune,—ah, what sorrow he has brought upon me! that son, I say, saw me, and courted me; I listened to him, and loved him, unknown to my father. In short, he promised to be my spouse, and I pledged myself to become his, without proceeding any farther. Yesterday I was informed that, forgetting his engagement to me, he was going to be married to another, and that this morning the ceremony was to be performed. The news confounded me, and I lost all patience. My father being out of town, I took the opportunity of equipping myself as you now see me, and by the speed of this horse, I overtook Don Vincente about a league hence, and, without stopping to reproach him, or hear his excuses, I fired at him not only with this piece, but with both my pistols, and lodged, I believe, not a few balls in his body: thus washing away with blood the stains of my honour. I left him to his servants, who either dared not, or could not prevent the execution of my purpose; and am come to seek your assistance to get to France, where I have relations, with whom I may live; and to entreat you likewise to protect my father from any cruel revenge on the part of Don Vincente's numerous kindred."
Roque was struck with the gallantry, bravery, figure, and also the adventure of the beautiful Claudia, and said to her, "Come, madam, and let us first be assured of your enemy's death, and then we will consider what is proper to be done for you."
So, after commanding his squires to restore to Sancho all they had taken from Dapple, and likewise to retire to the place where they had lodged the night before, he went off immediately with Claudia at full speed, in quest of the wounded or dead Don Vincente. They presently arrived at the place where Claudia had overtaken him, and found nothing there except the blood which had been newly spilt; but, looking round, at a considerable distance they saw some persons ascending a hill, and concluded (as indeed it proved) that it was Don Vincente, being conveyed by his servants, either to a doctor or his grave. They instantly pushed forward to overtake them, which they soon effected, and found Don Vincente in the arms of his servants, entreating them, in a low and feeble voice, to let him die in that place, for he could no longer endure the pain of his wounds. Claudia and Roque, throwing themselves from their horses, drew near; the servants were startled at the appearance of Roque, and Claudia was troubled at the sight of Don Vincente; when, divided between tenderness and resentment, she approached him, and, taking hold of his hand, said, "Had you but given me this hand, according to our contract, you would not have been reduced to this extremity." The wounded cavalier opened his almost closed eyes,and, recognising Claudia, he said, "I perceive, fair and mistaken lady, that it is to your hand I owe my death;—a punishment unmerited by me, for neither in thought nor deed could I offend you." "Is it not true, then," said Claudia, "that, this very morning, you were going to be married to Leonora, daughter of the rich Balvastro?" "No, certainly," answered Don Vincente; "my evil fortune must have borne you that news, to excite your jealousy to bereave me of life; but since I leave it in your arms, I esteem myself happy; and, to assure you of this truth, take my hand, and, if you are willing, receive me for your husband; for I can now give you no other satisfaction for the injury which you imagine you have received."
Claudia pressed his hand, and such was the anguish of her heart that she swooned away upon the bloody bosom of Don Vincente, and at the same moment he was seized with a mortal paroxysm. Roque was confounded, and knew not what to do; the servants ran for water, with which they sprinkled their faces; Claudia recovered, but Don Vincente was left in the sleep of death. When Claudia was convinced that her beloved husband no longer breathed, she rent the air with her groans, and pierced the skies with her lamentations. She tore her hair, scattered it in the wind, and, with her own merciless hands, wounded and disfigured her face, with every other demonstration of grief, distraction, and despair. "O rash and cruel woman!" she exclaimed, "with what facility wert thou moved to this evil deed! O maddening sting of jealousy, how deadly thy effects! O my dear husband, whose love for me hath given thee a cold grave!" So piteous, indeed, were the lamentations of Claudia, that they forced tears even from the eyes of Roque, where they were seldom or never seen before. The servants wept and lamented; Claudia was recovered from one fainting fit, only to fall into another, and all around was a scene of sorrow. At length Roque Guinart ordered the attendants to take up the body of Don Vincente, and convey it to the town where his father dwelt, which was not far distant, that it might be there interred. Claudia told Roque that it was her determination to retire to a nunnery, of which her aunt was abbess; there to spend what remained of her wretched life, looking to heavenly nuptials and an eternal spouse. Roque applauded her good design, offering to conduct her wherever it was her desire to go, and to defend her father against the relatives of Don Vincente, or any one who should offer violence to him. Claudia expressed her thanks in the best manner she could, but declined his company; and, overwhelmed with affliction, took her leave of him. At the same time, Don Vincente's servants carried off his dead body; and Roque returned to his companions. Thus ended the amour of Claudia Jeronima; and no wonder that it was so calamitous, since it was brought about by the cruel and irresistible power of jealousy.
Roque Guinart found his band of desperadoes in the place he had appointed to meet them, and Don Quixote in the midst of them, endeavouring, in a formal speech, to persuade them to quit that kind of life, so prejudicial both to soul and body. But his auditors were chiefly Gascons, a wild and ungovernable race, and therefore his harangue made but little impression upon them. Roque having asked Sancho Panza whether they had restored to him all the property which had been taken from Dapple, he said they had returned all but three night-caps, which were worth three cities. "What does the fellow say?" quoth one of the party; "I have got them, and they are not worth three reals." "That is true," quoth Don Quixote; "but my squire justly values the gift for the sake of the giver." Roque Guinart insisted upon their being immediately restored; then, after commanding his men to draw up in a line before him, he caused all the clothes, jewels, and money, and, in short, all they had plundered since the last division to be brought out and spread before them; which being done, he made a short appraisement, reducing what could not be divided into money, and shared the whole among his company with the utmost exactness and impartiality. After sharing the booty in this manner, by which all were satisfied, Roque said to Don Quixote, "If I were not thus exact in dealing with these fellows, there would be no living with them." "Well," quoth Sancho, "justice must needs be a good thing; for it is necessary, I see, even among thieves." On hearing this, one of the squires raised the butt-end of his piece, and would surely have split poor Sancho's head, if Roque had not called out to him to forbear. Terrified at his narrow escape, Sancho resolved to seal up his lips while he remained in such company.
Just at this time, intelligence was brought by the scouts that, not far distant, on the Barcelona road, a large body of people were seen coming that way. "Can you discover," said Roque, "whether they are such as we look for, or such as look for us?" "Such as we look for, sir." "Away then," said Roque, "and bring them hither straight; and see that none escape." The command was instantly obeyed; the band sallied forth, while Don Quixote and Sancho remained with the chief, anxious to see what would follow. In the mean time Roque conversed with the knight on his own way of living. "This life of ours must appear strange to you, Sigñor Don Quixote,—new accidents, new adventures, in constant succession, and all full of danger and disquiet: it is a state, I confess, in which there is no repose either for body or mind. Injuries which I could not brook, and a thirst of revenge, first led me into it, contrary to my nature; for the savage asperity of my present behaviour is a disguise to my heart, which is gentle and humane. Yet, unnatural as it is, having plunged into it, I persevere; and, as one sin is followed by another, and mischief is added to mischief, my own resentments are now so linkedwith those of others, and I am so involved in wrongs, and factions, and engagements, that nothing but the hand of Providence can snatch me out of this entangled maze. Nevertheless, I despair not of coming, at last, into a safe and quiet harbour."
Don Quixote was surprised at these sober reflections, so different from what he should have expected from a banditti chief, whose occupation was robbery and murder. "Sigñor Roque," said he, "the beginning of a cure consists in the knowledge of the distemper, and in the patient's willingness to take the medicines prescribed to him by his physician. You are sick; you know your malady; and God, our physician, is ready with medicines that, in time, will certainly effect a cure. Besides, sinners of good understanding are nearer to amendment than those who are devoid of it; and as your superior sense is manifest, be of good cheer, and hope for your entire recovery. If, in this desirable work, you would take the shortest way, and at once enter that of your salvation, come with me, and I will teach you to be knight-errant,—a profession, it is true, full of labours and disasters, but which, being placed to the account of penance, will not fail to lead you to honour and felicity." Roque smiled at Don Quixote's counsel; but, changing the discourse, he related to him the tragical adventure of Claudia Jeronima, which grieved Sancho to the heart; for he had been much captivated by the beauty, grace, and sprightliness of the young lady.
The party which had been despatched by Roque now returned with their captives, who consisted of two gentlemen on horseback, two pilgrims on foot, and a coach full of women, attended by six servants, some on foot, and some on horseback, and also two muleteers belonging to the gentlemen. They were surrounded by the victors, who, as well as the vanquished, waited in profound silence till the great Roque should declare his will. He first asked the gentlemen who they were, whither they were going, and what money they had? "We are captains of infantry, sir," said one of them; "and are going to join our companies, which are at Naples, and, for that purpose, intend to embark at Barcelona, where, it is said, four galleys are about to sail for Sicily. Two or three hundred crowns is somewhere about the amount of our cash, and with that sum we accounted ourselves rich, considering that we are soldiers, whose purses are seldom overladen." The pilgrims, being questioned in the same manner, said, their intention was to embark for Rome, and that they had about them some threescore reals. The coach now came under examination; and Roque was informed by one of the attendants that the persons within were the Lady Donna Guiomar de Quinones, wife of the regent of the vicarship of Naples, her young daughter, a waiting-maid, and a duenna; that six servants accompanied them, and their money amounted to six hundred crowns. "It appears, then," said Roque Guinart, "that we have herenine hundred crowns, and sixty reals: my soldiers are sixty in number; see how much falls to the share of each; for I am myself but an indifferent accountant."
His armed ruffians, on hearing this, cried out, "Long live Roque Guinart, in spite of the dogs that seek his ruin!" But the officers looked chop-fallen, the lady-regent much dejected, and the pilgrims nothing pleased at witnessing this confiscation of their effects. Roque held them awhile in suspense, and, turning to the captains, he said, "Pray, gentlemen, do me the favour to lend me sixty crowns; and you, lady-regent, fourscore, as a slight perquisite which these honest gentlemen of mine expect: for 'the abbot must eat that sings for his meat;' and you may then depart, and prosecute your journey without molestation; being secured by a pass which I will give you, in case of your meeting with any other of my people, who are dispersed about this part of the country; for it is not a practice with me to molest soldiers; and I should be loath, madam, to be found wanting in respect to the fair sex—especially to ladies of your quality."
The captains were liberal in their acknowledgments to Roque for his courtesy and moderation in having generously left them a part of their money; and Donna Guiomar de Quinones would have thrown herself out of the coach to kiss the feet and hands of the great Roque, but he would not suffer it, and entreated her pardon for the injury he was forced to do them, in compliance with the duties of an office which his evil fortune had imposed on him. The lady then ordered the fourscore crowns to be immediately paid to him, as her share of the assessment; the captains had already disbursed their quota, and the pilgrims were proceeding to offer their little all, when Roque told them to wait; then, turning to his men, he said, "Of these crowns two fall to each man's share, and twenty remain: let ten be given to these pilgrims, and the other ten to this honest squire, that, in relating his travels, he may have cause to speak well of us." Then, producing his writing implements, with which he was always provided, he gave them a pass, directed to the chiefs of his several parties; and, taking his leave, he dismissed them, all admiring his generosity, his gallantry, and extraordinary conduct, and looking upon him rather as an Alexander the Great than a notorious robber.
On the departure of the travellers, one of Roque's men seemed disposed to murmur, saying, in his Catalonian dialect, "This captain of ours is wondrous charitable, and would do better among friars than with those of our trade; but, if he must be giving, let it be with his own." The wretch spoke not so low but that Roque overheard him; and, drawing his sword, he almost cleft his head in two, saying, "Thus I chastise the mutinous." The rest were silent and overawed, such was their obedience to his authority. Roque then withdrew a little, and wrote a letter to a friend atBarcelona, to inform him that he had with him the famous Don Quixote de la Mancha, of whom so much had been reported, and that, being on his way to Barcelona, he might be sure to see him there on the approaching festival of St. John the Baptist, parading the strand, armed at all points, mounted on his steed Rozinante, and attended by his squire Sancho Panza, upon an ass; adding that he had found him wonderfully sagacious and entertaining. He also desired him to give notice of this to his friends the Niarra, that they might be diverted with the knight, and enjoy a pleasure which he thought too good for his enemies the Cadells; though he feared it was impossible to prevent their coming in for a share of what all the world must know and be delighted with. He despatched this epistle by one of his troop, who, changing the habit of his vocation for that of a peasant, entered the city, and delivered it as directed.
Of what befell Don Quixote at his entrance into Barcelona; with other events more true than ingenious.
Threedays and three nights Don Quixote sojourned with the great Roque; and, had he remained with him three hundred years, in such a mode of life he might still have found new matter for observation and wonder. Here they sleep, there they eat; sometimes flying from they know not what, at others lying in wait for they know not whom; often forced to steal their nap standing, and every moment liable to be roused. Roque passed the nights apart from his followers, making no man privy to his lodgings: for the numerous proclamations which the viceroy of Barcelona had published against him, setting a price upon his head, kept him in continual apprehension of surprise, and even of the treachery of his own followers; making his life irksome and wretched beyond measure.
Roque, Don Quixote, and Sancho, attended by six squires, set out for Barcelona; and taking the most secret and unfrequented ways, at night reached the strand on the eve of St. John. Roque now embraced the knight and the squire, giving to Sancho the promised ten crowns; and thus they parted, with many friendly expressions and a thousand offers of service on both sides.
Roque returned back, and Don Quixote remained there on horseback, waiting for daybreak; and it was not long before the beautiful Aurora appeared in the golden balconies of the east, cheering the flowery fields, while, at the same time, the ears were regaled with the sound of numerous kettle-drums and jingling morrice-bells, mixed with the noise of horsemen coming out ofthe city. Aurora now retired, and the glorious sun gradually rising, at length appeared broad as an ample shield on the verge of the horizon. Don Quixote and Sancho now beheld the sea, which, to them, was a wondrous novelty, and seemed so boundless and so vast that the lakes of Ruydera, which they had seen in La Mancha, could not be compared to it. They saw the galleys too, lying at anchor near the shore, which, on removing their awnings, appeared covered with flags and pennants all flickering in the wind, and kissing the surface of the water. Within them was heard the sound of trumpets, hautboys, and other martial instruments, that filled the air with sweet and cheering harmony. Presently the vessels were put in motion, and on the calm sea began a counterfeit engagement; at the same time a numerous body of cavaliers in gorgeous liveries and nobly mounted, issued from the city and performed corresponding movements on shore. Cannon were discharged on board the galleys, which were answered by those on the ramparts; and thus the air was rent by mimic thunder. The cheerful sea, the serene sky, only now and then obscured by the smoke of the artillery, seemed to exhilarate and gladden every heart.
Sancho wondered that the bulky monsters which he saw moving on the water should have so many legs; and while his master stood in silent astonishment at the marvellous scene before him, the body of gay cavaliers came galloping up towards him, shouting in the Moorish manner; and one of them, the person to whom Roque had written, came forward and said, "Welcome to our city, the mirror, the beacon, and polar star of knight-errantry! Welcome, I say, O valorous Don Quixote de la Mancha, not the spurious, the fictitious, the apocryphal one, lately sent amongst us in lying histories, but the true, the legitimate, the genuine Quixote of Cid Hamet Benengeli, the flower of historians!" Don Quixote answered not a word; nor did the cavaliers wait for any answer, but, wheeling round with all their followers, they began to curvet in a circle about Don Quixote, who, turning to Sancho, said, "These people seem to know us well, Sancho: I dare engage they have read our history, and even that of the Arragonese lately printed." The gentleman who spoke to Don Quixote again addressed him, saying, "Be pleased, Sigñor Don Quixote, to accompany us; for we are all the intimate and devoted friends of Roque Guinart." To which Don Quixote replied, "If courtesy beget courtesy, yours, good sir, springs from that of the great Roque; conduct me whither you please, for I am wholly at your disposal." The gentleman answered in expressions no less polite; and enclosing him in the midst of them, they all proceeded to the sound of martial music towards the city, until they reached their conductor's house, which was large and handsome, declaring the owner to be a man of wealth and consideration.
Of the adventure of the enchanted head; with other trifling matters that must not be omitted.
Thename of Don Quixote's present host was Don Antonio Moreno; he was rich, sensible, and good-humoured; and being cheerfully disposed, with such an inmate he soon began to consider how he might extract amusement from his whimsical infirmity, but without offence to his guest: for the jest that gives pain is no jest, nor is that lawful pastime which inflicts an injury. Having prevailed upon the knight to take off his armour, he led him to a balcony at the front of his house, and there in his straight chamois doublet (which has already been mentioned) exposed him to the populace, who stood gazing at him as if he had been some strange baboon. The gay cavaliers again appeared and paraded before him, as in compliment to him alone, and not in honour of that day's festival. Sancho was highly delighted to find so unexpectedly what he fancied to be another Camacho's wedding, another house like that of Don Diego de Miranda, and another duke's castle.
On that day several of Don Antonio's friends dined with him, all paying homage and respect to Don Quixote as a knight-errant; with which his vanity was so flattered that he could scarcely conceal the delight which it gave him. And such was the power of Sancho's wit that every servant of the house, and indeed all who heard him, hung as it were upon his lips. While sitting at table, Don Antonio said to him, "We are told here, honest Sancho, that you are so great a lover of capons and sausages, that when you have crammed your belly, you stuff your pockets with the fragments for another day." "'Tis not true, an't please your worship; I am not so filthy, nor am I a glutton, as my master Don Quixote here present can bear witness; for he knows we have often lived day after day, ay a whole week together, upon a handful of acorns or hazel nuts. It is true, I own, that if they give me a heifer, I make haste with a halter; my way is, to take things as I find them, and eat what comes to hand; and whoever has said that I am given to greediness, take my word for it, he is very much out; and I would tell my mind in another manner, but for the respect due to the honourable beards here at table." "In truth, gentlemen," said Don Quixote, "the frugality of my squire and his cleanliness in eating deserve to be recorded on plates of brass, to remain an eternal memorial for ages to come. I confess that, when in great want of food, he may appear somewhat ravenous, eating fast and chewing on both sides of his mouth; but as for cleanliness, he is therein most punctilious; and when he was a governor, such was his nicety in eating that he wouldtake up grapes, and even the grains of a pomegranate, with the point of a fork." "How!" quoth Don Antonio, "has Sancho been a governor?" "Yes, I have," replied Sancho, "and of an island called Barataria. Ten days I governed it at my own will and pleasure; but I paid for it in sleepless nights, and learned to hate with all my heart the trade of governing; and made such haste to leave it, that I fell into a pit, which I thought would be my grave, but I escaped alive out of it by a miracle." Hereupon Don Quixote related minutely all the circumstances of Sancho's government; to the great entertainment of the hearers.
The dinner being ended, Don Quixote was led by his host into a distant apartment, in which there was no other furniture than a small table, apparently of jasper, supported by a pillar of the same; and upon it was placed a bust, seemingly of bronze, the effigy of some high personage. After taking a turn or two in the room, Don Antonio said, "Sigñor Don Quixote, now that we are alone, I will make known to you one of the most extraordinary circumstances, or rather I should say, one of the greatest wonders imaginable, upon condition that what I shall communicate be deposited in the inmost recesses of secrecy." "It shall be there buried," answered Don Quixote; "and to be more secure, I will cover it with a tombstone; besides, I would have you know, Sigñor Don Antonio (for by this time he had learned his name), that you are addressing one who, though he has ears to hear, has no tongue to betray: so that if it please you to deposit it in my breast, be assured it is plunged into the abyss of silence." "I am satisfied," said Don Antonio; "and confiding in your promise, I will at once raise your astonishment, and disburden my own breast of a secret which I have long borne with pain, from the want of some person worthy to be made a confidant in matters which are not to be revealed to every body." Thus having, by his long preamble, strongly excited Don Quixote's curiosity, Don Antonio made him examine carefully the brazen head, the table, and the jasper pedestal upon which it stood; he then said, "Know, Sigñor Don Quixote, that this extraordinary bust is the production of one of the greatest enchanters or wizards that ever existed. He was, I believe, a Polander, and a disciple of the famous Escotillo, of whom so many wonders are related. He was here in my house, and for the reward of a thousand crowns fabricated this head for me, which has the virtue and property of answering to every question that is put to it. After much study and labour, drawing figures, erecting schemes, and frequent observation of the stars, he completed his work. To-day being Friday, it is mute; but to-morrow, Sigñor, you shall surely witness its marvellous powers. In the mean time, you may prepare your questions, for you may rely on hearing the truth." Don Quixote was much astonished at what he heard, and could scarcely credit Don Antonio's relation; but, considering how soon he should be satisfied,he was content to suspend his opinion, and expressed his acknowledgments to Don Antonio for so great a proof of his favour. Then leaving the chamber, and carefully locking the door, they both returned to the saloon, where the rest of the company were diverting themselves with Sancho's account of his master's adventures.
The same evening they carried Don Quixote abroad to take the air, mounted on a large, easy-paced mule, with handsome furniture, himself unarmed, and with a long wrapping coat of tawny-coloured cloth, so warm that it would have put even frost into a sweat. They had given private orders to the servants to find amusement for Sancho, so as to prevent his leaving the house, as they had secretly fixed on the back of Don Quixote's coat a parchment, on which was written in capital letters; "This is Don Quixote de la Mancha." They had no sooner set out than the parchment attracted the eyes of the passengers; and the inscription being read aloud, Don Quixote heard his name so frequently repeated, that turning to Don Antonio with much complacency, he said, "How great the prerogative of knight-errantry, since its professors are known and renowned over the whole earth! Observe, Sigñor Don Antonio; even the very boys of this city know me, although they never could have seen me before!" "It is very true, Sigñor Don Quixote," answered Don Antonio; "for as fire is discovered by its own light, so is virtue by its own excellence; and no renown equals in splendour that which is acquired by the profession of arms."
As Don Quixote thus rode along amidst the applause of the people, a Castilian, who had read the label on his back, exclaimed, "What! Don Quixote de la Mancha! How hast thou got here alive after the many drubbings and bastings thou hast received? Mad indeed thou art! Had thy folly been confined to thyself, the mischief had been less; but thou hast the property of converting into fools and madmen all that keep thee company—witness these gentlemen here, thy present associates. Get home, blockhead, to thy wife and children; look after thy house, and leave these fooleries that eat into thy brain and skim off the cream of thy understanding!" "Go, friend," said Don Antonio, "look after your own business, and give your advice where it is required; Sigñor Don Quixote is wise, and we his friends know what we are doing. Virtue demands our homage wherever it is found; begone, therefore, in an evil hour, nor meddle where you are not called." "Truly," answered the Castilian, "your worship is in the right; for to give that lunatic advice, is to kick against the pricks. Yet am I grieved that the good sense which he is said to have, should run to waste, and be lost in the mire of knight-errantry. And may the evil hour, as your worship said, overtake me and all my generation, if ever you catch me giving advice again to any body, asked or not asked, though I were to live to the age of Methuselah."So saying, the adviser went his way; but the rabble still pressing upon them to read the inscription, Don Antonio contrived to have it removed, that they might proceed without interruption.
The next day, Don Antonio determined to make experiment of the enchanted head; and for that purpose, the knight and squire, the two mischievous ladies (who had been invited by Don Antonio's lady to sleep there that night), and two other friends, were conducted to the chamber in which the head was placed. After locking the door, Don Antonio proceeded to explain to them the properties of the miraculous bust, of which, he said, he should for the first time make trial, but laid them all under an injunction of secrecy. The artifice was known only to the two gentlemen, who, had they not been apprised of it, would have been no less astonished than the rest at so ingenious a contrivance. The first who approached the head was Don Antonio himself, who whispered in its ear, not so low but he was overheard by all: "Tell me," said he, "thou wondrous head, by the virtue inherent in thee, what are my present thoughts." The head, in a distinct and intelligible voice, though without moving the lips, answered, "I am no judge of thoughts." They were all astonished at the voice, being sensible nobody was in the room to answer. "How many of us are there in the room?" said Don Antonio again. The voice answered, in the same key, "Thou, and thy wife, two of thy friends, and two of hers; a famous knight, called Don Quixote de la Mancha, and his squire Sancho Panza." Now their astonishment was greater than before; and the hair of some of them stood on end with amazement. "It is enough," said Don Antonio, stepping aside, "I am convinced it was no impostor sold thee to me, sage, miraculous head! Now, let somebody else try their fortunes." As women are generally most curious and inquisitive, one of the dancing ladies, venturing up to it, "Tell me, head," said she, "what shall I do to be truly beautiful?" "Be honest," answered the head. "I have done," replied the lady. Her companion then came on, and with the same curiosity, "I would know," said she, "whether my husband loves me or no." The head answered, "Observe his usage, and that will tell thee." "Truly," said the married lady to herself, as she withdrew, "that question was needless; for, indeed, a man's actions are the surest tokens of the dispositions of his mind."
Don Antonio's lady asked the next question. "I do not well know what to ask thee," said she; "only tell me whether I shall long enjoy the company of my dear husband." "Thou shalt," answered the head; "for his healthy constitution and temperance promise length of days, while those who live too fast are not like to live long." Next came Don Quixote. "Tell me, thou oracle," said he, "was what I reported of my adventures in Montesinos' cave a dream or reality? will Sancho my squire fulfil hispromise, and scourge himself effectually? and shall Dulcinea be disenchanted?" "As for the adventures in the cave," answered the head, "there is much to be said—they have something of both; Sancho's whipping shall go on but leisurely; however, Dulcinea shall at last be really freed from enchantment." "That is all I desire to know," said Don Quixote; "for the whole stress of my good fortune depends on Dulcinea's disenchantment." Then Sancho made the last application. "If it please you, Mr. Head," quoth he, "shall I chance to have another government? shall I ever get clear of this starving squire-erranting? and shall I ever see my own fireside again?" The head answered, "Thou shalt be a governor in thine own house; if thou goest home, thou mayest see thy own fireside again; and if thou leavest off thy service, thou shalt get clear of thy squireship." "That is a very good one," cried Sancho; "a horse-head, I vow, might have told all this; I could have prophesied thus much myself." "How now!" said Don Quixote; "what answers wouldst thou have but what are pertinent to thy questions?" "Nay," quoth Sancho, "since you will have it so, it shall be so; I only wish Mr. Head would have told me a little more concerning the matter."
Thus the questions proposed, and the answers returned, were brought to a period; but the amazement continued among all the company, except Don Antonio's two friends, who understood the device.
The manner of it was thus: the table, and the frame on which it stood, the feet of which resembled four eagles' claws, were of wood, painted and varnished like jasper. The head, which looked like the bust of a Roman emperor, and of a brass colour, was all hollow, and so were the feet of the table, which answered exactly to the neck and breast of the head; the whole so artificially fixed, that it seemed to be all of a piece; through this cavity ran a tin pipe, conveyed into it by a passage through the ceiling of the room under the table. He that was to answer, set his ear to the end of the pipe in the chamber underneath, and by the hollowness of the trunk, received their questions, and delivered his answers in clear and articulate words; so that the imposture could scarcely be discovered. The oracle was managed by a young, ingenious gentleman, Don Antonio's nephew; who having his instructions beforehand from his uncle, was able to answer, readily and directly, to the first questions; and by conjectures or evasions make a return handsomely to the rest, with the help of his ingenuity.
Of an unlucky adventure which Don Quixote laid most to heart of any that had yet befallen him.
Ithappened one morning that Don Quixote, going abroad to take the air upon the sea-shore, armed at all points, according to his custom—his arms, as he said, being his best attire—he spied a knight riding towards him, armed like himself from head to foot, with a bright moon blazoned on his shield, who, coming within hearing, called out to him, "Illustrious Don Quixote de la Mancha, I am the Knight of the White Moon, whose incredible achievements perhaps have reached thy ears. Lo! I am come to enter into combat with thee, and to compel thee, by dint of sword, to own and acknowledge my mistress, by whatever name and dignity she be distinguished, to be, without any degree of comparison, more beautiful than thy Dulcinea del Toboso. Now if thou wilt fairly confess this truth, thou freest thyself from certain death, and me from the trouble of taking or giving thee thy life. If not, the conditions of our combat are these: If victory be on my side, thou shalt be obliged immediately to forsake thy arms and the quest of adventures, and to return to thy own house, where thou shalt engage to live quietly and peaceably for the space of one whole year, without laying hand on thy sword, to the improvement of thy estate, and the salvation of thy soul. But, if thou comest off conqueror, my life is at thy mercy, my horse and arms shall be thy trophy, and the fame of all my former exploits, by the lineal descent of conquest, be vested in thee as victor. Consider what thou hast to do, and let thy answer be quick, for my despatch is limited to this very day."
Don Quixote was amazed and surprised, as much at the arrogance of the Knight of the White Moon's challenge, as at the subject of it; so, with a composed and solemn address, he replied, "Knight of the White Moon, whose achievements have as yet been kept from my knowledge, it is more than probable that you have never seen the illustrious Dulcinea; for had you viewed her perfections, you had found arguments enough to convince you, that no beauty, past, present, or to come, can parallel hers; and therefore I tell thee, knight, thou art mistaken; and this position I will maintain, by accepting your challenge on your own conditions, except that article of your exploits descending to me; for, not knowing what character your actions bear, I shall rest satisfied with the fame of my own, by which, such as they are, I am willing to abide. And since your time is so limited, choose your ground, and begin your career as soon as you will, and expect a fair field and no favour."
While the two knights were adjusting the preliminaries ofcombat, the viceroy, who had been informed of the Knight of the White Moon's appearance near the city walls, and his parleying with Don Quixote, hastened to the scene of battle, not suspecting it to be any thing but some new device of Don Antonio Moreno, or somebody else. Several gentlemen, and Don Antonio among the rest, accompanied him thither. They arrived just as Don Quixote was wheeling Rozinante to fetch his career, and seeing them both ready for the onset, he interposed, desiring to know the cause of the sudden combat. The Knight of the White Moon told him, there was a lady in the case; and briefly repeated to his excellency what passed between him and Don Quixote. The viceroy whispered Don Antonio, and asked him whether he knew that Knight of the White Moon, and whether their combat was not some jocular device to impose upon Don Quixote? Don Antonio answered positively, that he neither knew the knight, nor whether the combat were in jest or earnest. This put the viceroy to some doubt whether he should not prevent their engagement; but being at last persuaded that it must be a jest at the bottom, he withdrew. "Valorous knights," said he, "if there be no medium between confession and death, but Don Quixote be still resolved to deny, and you, the Knight of the White Moon, as obstinately to urge, I have no more to say; the field is free, and so proceed."
The knights made their compliments to the viceroy; and Don Quixote, making some short ejaculations to Heaven and his lady, as he always used upon these occasions, began his career, without either sound of trumpet or any other signal. His adversary was no less forward; for setting spurs to his horse, which was much the swifter, he met Don Quixote so forcibly, before he had run half his career, that without making use of his lance, which it is thought he lifted up on purpose, he overthrew the Knight of La Mancha and Rozinante, both coming to the ground with a terrible fall.
The Knight of the White Moon got immediately upon him; and clapping the point of his lance to his face, "Knight," cried he, "you are vanquished and a dead man, unless you immediately fulfil the conditions of your combat." Don Quixote, bruised and stunned with his fall, without lifting up his beaver, answered in a faint hollow voice, as if he had spoken out of a tomb, "Dulcinea del Toboso is the most beautiful woman in the world, and I the most unfortunate knight upon the earth. It were unjust that such perfection should suffer through my weakness. No, pierce my body with thy lance, knight, and let my life expire with my honour." "Not so rigorous neither," replied the conqueror; "let the fame of the lady Dulcinea remain entire and unblemished; provided the great Don Quixote return home for a year, as we agreed before the combat, I am satisfied." The viceroy and Don Antonio, with many other gentlemen, were witnesses to all thesepassages, and particularly to this proposal; to which Don Quixote answered, that upon condition he should be enjoined nothing to the prejudice of Dulcinea, he would, upon the faith of a true knight, be punctual in the performance of every thing else. This acknowledgment being made, the Knight of the White Moon turned about his horse, and saluting the viceroy, rode at a hand-gallop into the city, whither Don Antonio followed him, at the viceroy's request, to find out who he was, if possible.
Don Quixote was lifted up, and, upon taking off his helmet, they found him pale, and in a cold sweat. As for Rozinante, he was in so sad a plight, that he could not stir for the present. Then, as for Sancho, he was in so heavy a taking, that he knew not what to do, nor what to say: he was sometimes persuaded he was in a dream, sometimes he fancied this rueful adventure was all witchcraft and enchantment. In short, he found his master discomfited in the face of the world, and bound to good behaviour and to lay aside his arms for a whole year. Now he thought his glory eclipsed, his hopes of greatness vanished into smoke, and his master's promises, like his bones, put out of joint by that terrible fall, which he was afraid had at once crippled Rozinante and his master. At last, the vanquished knight was put into a chair, which the viceroy had sent for that purpose, and they carried him into town, accompanied likewise by the viceroy, who had a great curiosity to know who this Knight of the White Moon was, that had left Don Quixote in so sad a condition.
Wherein is given an account of the Knight of the White Moon; with other matters.
Don Antonio Morenofollowed the Knight of the White Moon to his inn, whither he was attended by a rabble of boys. The knight being got to his chamber, where his squire waited to take off his armour, Don Antonio came in, declaring he would not be shaken off till he had discovered who he was. The knight finding that the gentleman would not leave him, "Sir," said he, "since I lie under no obligation of concealing myself, if you please, while my man disarms me, you shall hear the whole truth of the story.
"You must know, sir, I am called the Bachelor Carrasco: I live in the same town with this Don Quixote, whose unaccountable phrenzy has moved all his neighbours, and me among the rest, to endeavour by some means to cure his madness; in order to which, believing that rest and ease would prove the surest remedy, I bethought myself of this present stratagem; and, aboutthree months ago, in the equipage of a knight-errant, under the title of the Knight of the Mirrors, I met him on the road, fixed a quarrel upon him, and the conditions of our combat were as you have heard already. But fortune then declared for him, for he unhorsed and vanquished me; and so I was disappointed: he prosecuted his adventures, and I returned home very much hurt with my fall. But willing to retrieve my credit, I have made this second attempt, and now have succeeded; for I know him to be so nicely punctual in whatever his word and honour is engaged for, that he will undoubtedly perform his promise. This, sir, is the sum of the whole story; and I beg the favour of you to conceal me from Don Quixote, that my project may not be ruined a second time, and that the honest gentleman, who is naturally a man of good parts, may recover his understanding." "Oh, sir," replied Don Antonio, "what have you to answer for, in robbing the world of the most diverting folly that ever was exposed among mankind! Consider, sir, that his cure can never benefit the public half so much as his distemper. But I am apt to believe, Sir Bachelor, that his madness is too firmly fixed for your art to remove; and, indeed, I cannot forbear wishing it may be so; for by Don Quixote's cure, we not only lose his good company, but the drolleries and comical humours of Sancho Panza too, which are enough to cure melancholy itself of the spleen. However, I promise to say nothing of the matter; though I confidently believe, sir, your pains will be to no purpose." Carrasco told him, that having succeeded so far, he was obliged to cherish better hopes; and asking Don Antonio if he had any farther service to command him, he took his leave; and packing up his armour on a carriage-mule, presently mounted his charging horse, and leaving the city that very day, posted homewards, meeting no adventure on the road worthy a place in this faithful history.
Don Antonio gave an account of the discourse he had had with Carrasco to the viceroy, who was vexed to think that so much pleasant diversion was like to be lost to all those that were acquainted with the Don's exploits.
Six days did Don Quixote keep his bed, very dejected, and full of severe and dismal reflections on his fatal overthrow. Sancho was his comforter; and among his other crumbs of comfort, "My dear master," quoth he, "cheer up; come, pluck up a good heart, and be thankful for coming off no worse. Why, a man has broken his neck with a less fall, and you have not so much as a broken rib. Consider, sir, that they that game must sometimes lose; we must not always look for bacon where we see the hooks. Come, sir, cry a fig for the doctor, since you will not need him this bout; let us jog home fair and softly, without thinking any more of sauntering up and down, nobody knows whither, in quest of adventures and bloody noses. Why, sir, I am the greatest loser, if you go to that, though it is you that are in the worst pickle. It istrue, I was weary of being a governor, and gave over all thoughts that way; but yet I never parted with my inclination of being an earl; and now, if you miss being a king, by casting off your knight-errantry, poor I may go whistle for my earldom." "No more of that, Sancho," said Don Quixote; "I shall only retire for a year, and then reassume my honourable profession, which will undoubtedly secure me a kingdom, and thee an earldom." "Heaven grant it may," quoth Sancho, "and no mischief betide us; hope well and have well, says the proverb."
Two days after, Don Quixote, being somewhat recovered, took his leave of Don Antonio, and having caused his armour to be laid on Dapple, he set forwards on his journey home, Sancho thus being forced to trudge after him on foot.
Don Quixote, as he went out of Barcelona, cast his eyes on the spot of ground where he was overthrown. "Here once Troy stood," said he; "here my unhappy fate, and not my cowardice, deprived me of all the glories I had purchased. Here fortune, by an unexpected reverse, made me sensible of her inconstancy and fickleness. Here my exploits suffered a total eclipse; and in short, here fell my happiness, never to rise again." Sancho, hearing his master thus dolefully paraphrasing on his misfortunes, "Good sir," quoth he, "it is as much the part of great spirits to have patience when the world frowns upon them, as to be joyful when all goes well; and I judge of it by myself; for if when I was a governor I was merry, now I am but a poor squire a-foot I am not sad. And indeed I have heard say, that this same lady they call Fortune is a whimsical, freakish quean, and blind into the bargain; so that she neither sees what she does, nor knows whom she raises nor whom she casts down." "Thou art very much a philosopher, Sancho," said Don Quixote; "thou talkest very sensibly. I wonder how thou camest by all this; but I must tell thee there is no such thing as fortune in the world, nor does any thing that happens here below of good or ill come by chance, but by the appointment of Providence; and this makes good the proverb, that every man may thank himself for his own fortune. For my part, I have been the maker of mine; but for want of using the discretion I ought to have used, all my presumptuous edifice sunk, and tumbled down at once. I might well have considered that Rozinante was too weak and feeble to withstand the Knight of the White Moon's huge and strong-built horse. However, I would needs adventure: I did the best I could, and was overcome. Yet though it has cost me my honour, I have not lost, nor can I lose, my integrity to perform my promise. Trudge on then, friend Sancho, and let us get home, to pass the year of our probation. In that retirement we shall recover new vigour, to return again to the never-to-be-forgotten profession of arms."
That night master and man took up their lodging in a field,under the roof of the open sky; and the next day, as they were on their journey, they saw coming towards them a man on foot, with a wallet about his neck, and a javelin or dart in his hand, just like a foot-post. The man mended his pace when he came near Don Quixote, and, almost running, came with a great deal of joy in his looks, and embraced Don Quixote's right thigh, for he could reach no higher. "My Lord Don Quixote de la Mancha," cried he, "oh, how heartily glad my lord duke will be when he understands you are coming again to his castle, for there he is still with my lady duchess." "I do not know you, friend," answered Don Quixote; "nor can I imagine who you should be, unless you tell me yourself." "My name is Tosilos, if it please your honour; I am my lord duke's footman, the same who would not fight with you about Donna Rodriguez's daughter." "Bless me!" cried Don Quixote, "is it possible you should be the man whom those enemies of mine, the magicians, transformed into a lackey, to deprive me of the honour of that combat?" "Softly, good sir," replied the footman; "there was neither enchantment nor transformation in the case. I was as much a footman when I entered the lists as when I came out; and it was because I had a mind to marry the young gentlewoman that I refused to fight. But I was sadly disappointed; for, when you were gone, my lord duke had me soundly banged for not doing as he ordered me in that matter; and the upshot was this, Donna Rodriguez is packed away to seek her fortune, and the daughter is shut up in a nunnery. As for me, I am going to Barcelona with a parcel of letters from my lord to the viceroy. However, sir, if you please to take a sip, I have here a calabash full of the best, with some excellent cheese, that will make it go down, I warrant you." "I take you at your word," quoth Sancho; "I am no proud man; and so let us drink, honest Tosilos, in spite of all the enchanters in the Indies." "Well, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "thou art certainly the veriest glutton that ever was, and the silliest blockhead in the world, else thou wouldst consider that this man thou seest here is enchanted, and a sham lackey. Stay with him, if thou thinkest fit, and gratify thy voracious appetite; for my part, I will ride softly on before." Tosilos smiled, and, laying his bottle and his cheese upon the grass, he and Sancho sat down there, and, like sociable messmates, never stirred till they had quite cleared the wallet.
While they were thus employed, "Friend Sancho," quoth Tosilos, "I know not what to make of this master of yours; doubtless he ought to be reckoned a madman." "Why ought?" replied Sancho; "he owes nothing to any body, for he pays for every thing, especially where madness is current; there he might be the richest man in the kingdom, he has such a stock of it. I see it full well, and full well I tell him of it; but what boots it, especially now that he is all in the dumps, for having been worstedby the Knight of the White Moon?" Tosilos begged of Sancho to tell him that story; but Sancho said it would not be handsome to let his master stay for him, but that next time they met he would tell him the whole matter. With that they got up; and, after the squire had brushed his clothes and put himself to rights, he drove Dapple along, and with a good-by-to-ye, left Tosilos, in order to overtake his master, who stayed for him under the cover of a tree.
How Don Quixote resolved to turn shepherd, and lead a rural life for the year's time he was obliged not to bear arms; with other passages truly good and diverting.
Theytravelled on conversing together till they came near the place where the bulls had run over them; and Don Quixote knowing it again, "Sancho," said he, "yonder is that meadow where we met the fine shepherdesses, and the gallant shepherds, who had a mind to renew or imitate the pastoral Arcadia. It was certainly a new and ingenious conceit. If thou thinkest well of it, we will follow their example, and turn shepherds too, at least for the time I am to lay aside the profession of arms. I will buy a flock of sheep, and every thing that is fit for a pastoral life; and so calling myself the shepherd Quixotis, and thee the shepherd Pansino, we will range the woods, the hills, and meadows, singing and versifying. We will drink the liquid crystal, sometimes out of the fountains, and sometimes from the purling brooks and swift-gliding streams. The oaks, the cork-trees, and chestnut-trees, will afford us both lodging and diet, the willows will yield us their shade, the roses present us their inoffensive sweets, and the spacious meads will be our carpets, diversified with colours of all sorts; blessed with the purest air, and unconfined alike, we shall breathe that, and freedom. The moon and stars, our tapers of the night, shall light our evening walks. Light hearts will make us merry, and mirth will make us sing. Love will inspire us with a theme and with wit, and Apollo with harmonious lays. So shall we become famous, not only while we live, but we shall make our loves eternal as our songs."
"Sure enough," quoth Sancho, "this sort of life suits me to a hair; and I fancy that, if the bachelor Sampson Carrasco and Master Nicholas have but once a glimpse of it, they will even turn shepherds too; nay, it is well if the curate does not put in for one among the rest, for he is a notable joker, and merrily inclined." "That was well thought on," said Don Quixote; "and then, if the bachelor will make one among us, as I doubt not buthe will, he may call himself the shepherd Samsonino, or Carrascon; and Master Nicholas, Niculoso. For the curate, I do not well know what name we shall give him, unless we should call him the shepherd Curiambro. As for the shepherdesses with whom we must fall in love, we cannot be at a loss to find them names, there are enough for us to pick and choose; and, since my lady's name is not improper for a shepherdess, any more than for a princess, I will not trouble myself to get a better; thou mayest call thine as thou pleasest." "For my part," quoth Sancho, "I do not think of any other name for mine than Teresona; that will fit her full well, and is taken from her Christian name too. So, when I come to mention her in my verses, every body will know her to be my wife, and commend my honesty as being contented with my own." "Bless me," said Don Quixote, "what a life shall we lead! What a melody of oaten reeds and Zamora pipes shall we have resounding in the air! what intermixture of tabors, morrice-bells, and fiddles! And if to all the different instruments we add the albogues, we shall have all manner of pastoral music." "What are the albogues?" quoth Sancho; "for I do not remember to have seen or ever heard of them in my life."
"They are," said Don Quixote, "a sort of instruments made of brass plates, rounded like candlesticks: the one shutting into the other, there rises, through the holes or stops, and the trunk or hollow, an odd sound, which, if not very grateful or harmonious, is, however, not altogether disagreeable, but does well enough with the rusticity of the bagpipe or tabor. You must know the word is Moorish, as indeed are all those in our Spanish that begin withal, as Almoasa, Almorsar, Alhombra, Alguasil, Alucema, Almacen, Alcanzia, and the like, which are not very many. And we have also but three Moorish words in our tongue that end ini; and they are, Borcequi, Zaquicami, and Maravedi; for, as to Alheli and Alfaqui, they are as well known to be Arabic by their beginning withal, as their ending ini. I could not forbear telling thee so much by the by, thy query about albogue having brought it into my head. There is one thing more that will go a great way towards making us complete in our new kind of life, and that is poetry. Thou knowest I am somewhat given that way, and the bachelor Carrasco is a most accomplished poet, to say nothing of the curate, though I will hold a wager he is a dabbler in it too; and so is Master Nicholas, I dare say; for all your barbers are notable scrapers and songsters. For my part, I will complain of absence; thou shalt celebrate thy own loyalty and constancy; the shepherd Carrascon shall expostulate on his shepherdess's disdain; and the pastor Curiambro choose what subject he likes best; and so all will be managed to our heart's content. But no more at this time—it grows late—let us leave the road a little, and take up our quarters yonder in the fields; to-morrow will be a new day." They did accordingly, and madea slender meal, as little to Sancho's liking as his hard lodging; which brought the hardships of knight-erranting fresh into his thoughts, and made him wish for the better entertainment he had sometimes found, as at Don Diego's, Camacho's, and Don Antonio's houses. But he considered, after all, that it could not be always fair weather, nor was it always foul; so he betook himself to his rest till morning, and his master to the usual exercise of his roving imaginations.
Don Quixote, after his first sleep, thought nature sufficiently refreshed, and would not yield to the temptations of a second. Sancho, indeed, did not enjoy a second, but from a different reason. For he usually made but one nap of the whole night; which was owing to the soundness of his constitution, and his inexperience of cares, that lay so heavy upon Don Quixote.
"Sancho," said the knight, after he had pulled the squire till he had waked him too, "I am amazed at the insensibility of thy temper. Thou art certainly made of marble or brass, thou liest so without either motion or feeling. Thou sleepest while I wake; thou singest while I mourn; and while I am ready to faint for want of sustenance, thou art lazy and unwieldy with mere gluttony. It is the part of a good servant to share in the afflictions of his master. Observe the stillness of the night, and the solitary place we are in. It is a pity such an opportunity should be lost in sloth and inactive rest; rouse for shame, step a little aside, and with a good grace and a cheerful heart, score me up some three or four hundred lashes upon thy back, towards the disenchanting of Dulcinea. This I make my earnest request, being resolved never to be rough with thee again upon this account; for I must confess thou canst lay a heavy hand on a man upon occasion. When that performance is over, we will pass the remainder of the night in chanting, I of absence, and thou of constancy, and so begin those pastoral exercises which are to be our employment at home."
"Sir," answered Sancho, "do you take me for a monk or a friar, that I should start up in the middle of the night, and discipline myself at this rate? Or do you think it such an easy matter to scourge myself one moment, and fall a-singing the next? Look you, sir; say not a word more of this whipping; if the bare brushing of my coat would do you any good, you should not have it, much less the currying of my hide; and so let me go to sleep again." "O obdurate heart!" cried Don Quixote; "O nourishment and favours ill bestowed! Is this my reward for having got thee a government, and my good intentions to get thee an earldom, or an equivalent at least, which I dare engage to do when this year of our obscurity is elapsed? for, in short,post tenebras spero lucem." "That I do not understand," quoth Sancho; "but this I very well know, that I have worst luck of any physician under the cope of heaven; other doctors kill theirpatients, and are paid for it too, and yet they are at no further trouble than scrawling two or three cramp words for some physical slip-slop, which the apothecaries are at all the pains to make up. Now here am I, that save people from the grave, at the expense of my own hide, pinched, run through with pins, and whipped like a top, and yet never a cross I get by the bargain. But if ever they catch me a-curing any body in this fashion, unless I have my fee beforehand, may I be served as I have been, for nothing. No money, no cure, say I." "You are right, Sancho," said Don Quixote; "for my part, had you demanded your fees for disenchanting Dulcinea, you should have received them already; but I am afraid there can be no gratuity proportionable to the greatness of the cure; and therefore I would not have the remedy depend upon a reward; for who knows whether my proffering it, or thy acceptance of it, might hinder the effect of the penance? However, since we have gone so far, we will put it to a trial: come, Sancho, name your price, and begin. First scourge yourself, then pay yourself out of the money of mine that you have in your custody." Sancho, opening his eyes and ears above a foot wide at this fair offer, leaped presently at the proposal. "Ay, ay, sir, now, now you say something," quoth he; "I will do it with a jerk now, since you speak so feelingly: I have a wife and children to maintain, sir, and I must mind the main chance. Come, then, how much will you give me by the lash?" "Were your payment," said Don Quixote, "to be answerable to the greatness and merits of the cure, not all the wealth of Venice, nor the Indian mines, were sufficient to reward thee. But see what cash you have of mine in your hands, and set what price you will on every stripe." "The lashes," quoth Sancho, "are in all three thousand three hundred and odd, of which I have had five; the rest are to come. Let these five go for the odd ones, and let us come to the three thousand three hundred. At a quartillo, or three halfpence a-piece (and I will not bate a farthing, if it were to my brother), they will make three thousand three hundred three-halfpences. Three thousand three-halfpences make fifteen hundred threepences, which amounts to seven hundred and fifty reals or sixpences. Now the three hundred remaining three-halfpences make an hundred and fifty threepences, and threescore and fifteen sixpences; put that together, and it comes just to eight hundred and twenty-five reals, or sixpences, to a farthing. This money, sir, if you please, I will deduct from yours that I have in my hands; and then I will reckon myself well paid for my jerking, and go home well pleased, though well whipped. But that is nothing; for he must not think to catch fish who is afraid to wet his feet. I need say no more." "Now blessings on thy heart, dearest Sancho!" cried Don Quixote; "O my friend, how shall Dulcinea and I be bound to pray forthee, and serve thee while it shall please Heaven to continue us on earth! If she recover her former shape and beauty, as now she infallibly must, her misfortune will turn to her felicity, and I shall triumph in my defeat. Speak, dear Sancho; when wilt thou enter upon thy task? and a hundred reals more shall be at thy service, as a gratuity for thy being expeditious." "I will begin this very night," answered Sancho; "do you but order it so that we may lie in the fields, and you shall see how I will lay about me."