The close of Don Quixote's speech, which related to his notmarrying, touched Sancho so to the quick, that he could not forbear bawling out his resentments: "Sir Don Quixote," cried he, "you are certainly out of your wits; or how is it possible you should stick at striking a bargain with so great a lady as this? Do you think fortune will put such dainty bits in your way at every corner? Is my Lady Dulcinea handsomer, do you think? No, marry, she is not half so handsome: I could almost say she is not worthy to tie this lady's shoe-latchets. I am likely, indeed, to get the earldom I have fed myself with the hopes of, if you spend your time in fishing for mushrooms at the bottom of the sea! Marry out of hand, I say, and lay hold of the kingdom which is ready to leap into your hands; and as soon as you are a king, make me a marquis, or a peer of the land, and afterwards, let things go at sixes and sevens, it will be all one to Sancho." Don Quixote, quite divested of all patience at the blasphemies which were spoken against his Lady Dulcinea, could bear with him no longer; and therefore, without so much as a word to give him notice of his displeasure, gave him two such blows with his lance, that poor Sancho measured his length on the ground, and had certainly there breathed his last, had not the knight desisted through the persuasions of Dorothea. "Thinkest thou," said he, after a considerable pause, "most infamous peasant, that I shall always have leisure and disposition to put up with thy affronts, and that thy whole business shall be to study new offences, and mine to give thee new pardons? Dost thou not know, excommunicated traitor, (for certainly excommunication is the least punishment can fall upon thee after such profanations of the peerless Dulcinea's name,) and art thou not assured, vile slave and ignominious vagabond, that I should not have strength sufficient to kill a flea, did not she give strength to my nerves and infuse vigour into my sinews? Speak, thou villain with the viper's tongue; who dost thou imagine has restored the queen to her kingdom, cut off the head of a giant, and made thee a marquis, (for I count all this as done already,) but the power of Dulcinea, who makes use of my arm as the instrument of her act in me? She fights and overcomes in me, and I live and breathe in her, holding life and being from her. Thou base-born wretch! art thou not possessed of the utmost ingratitude, thou who seest thyself exalted from the very dregs of the earth to nobility and honour, and yet dost repay so great a benefit with obloquies against the person of thy benefactress? But I pardon thee for this time," added the Don, "and thou must excuse me for what I have done to thee; for the first movements are not in our power." "I perceive that well enough," said Sancho, "and that is the reason my first thoughts are always on my tongue; and I cannot for my life help speaking what comes uppermost." "However, friend Sancho," said Don Quixote, "thou hadst best think before thou speakest; for the pitcher never goes so oft to the well." "No more of this, Sancho,"said Dorothea; "but run and kiss your lord's hands, and beg his pardon; and, for the time to come, be more advised and cautious how you run into the praise or dispraise of any person; but especially take care you do not speak ill of that lady of Toboso, whom I do not know, though I am ready to do her any service; and trust me you shall have a lordship which shall enable you to live like a prince." Sancho shrugged up his shoulders, and in a humble posture went and asked his master for his hand, which he held out to him with a grave countenance; and after the squire had kissed the back of it, the knight gave him his blessing, and told him he had a word or two with him, bidding him come nearer, that he might have the better convenience of speaking to him. Sancho did as his master commanded, and going a little from the company with him, they conversed a while together. At the conclusion, Sancho said: "Good master, you shall not want satisfaction; but, your worship, for the time to come, I beseech you do not be too hasty." "What occasion hast thou, Sancho, to make this request?" replied Don Quixote. "Reason good enough, truly," said Sancho; "for the blows you gave me even now were rather given me on account of that quarrel which was stirred up between your worship and me the other night, than for your dislike of anything which was spoken against my Lady Dulcinea." "Pr'ythee, Sancho," cried Don Quixote, "be careful of falling again into such irreverent expressions; for they provoke me to anger, and are highly offensive. I pardoned thee then for being a delinquent; but thou art sensible that a new offence must be attended with a new punishment."
As they were going on in such discourse as this, they saw at a distance a person riding up to them on an ass, who, as he came near enough to be distinguished, seemed to be a gipsy by his habit. But Sancho Panza, who, whenever he got sight of any asses, followed them with his eyes and his heart, as one whose thoughts were ever fixed on his own, had scarce given him half an eye but he knew him to be Gines de Passamonte, and by the looks of the gipsy found out the visage of his ass; for indeed it was the very same which Gines had got under him, who, to conceal himself from the knowledge of the public, and have the better opportunity of making a good market of his beast, had clothed himself like a gipsy; the cant of that sort of people, as well as the languages of other countries, being as natural and familiar to them as their own. Sancho saw him and knew him; and scarce had he seen and taken notice of him, when he cried out as loud as his tongue would permit him, "Ah, thou thief Genesillo! leave my goods and chattels behind thee; get off from the back of my own dear life; thou hast nothing to do with my poor beast, without whom I cannot enjoy a moment's ease; away from my Dapple, away from my comfort! take to thy heels thou villain! hence, thou hedge-bird, leave what is none ofthine!" He had no occasion to use so many words, for Gines dismounted as soon as he heard him speak, and taking to his heels, got from them, and was out of sight in an instant. Sancho ran immediately to his ass, and embraced him: "How hast thou done," cried he, "since I saw thee, my darling and treasure, my dear Dapple, the delight of my eyes, and my dearest companion?" And then he stroked and slabbered him with kisses, as if the beast had been a rational creature. The ass, for his part, was as silent as could be, and gave Sancho the liberty of as many kisses as he pleased, without the return of so much as one word to the many questions he had put to him. At sight of this the rest of the company came up with him, and paid their compliments of congratulation to Sancho for the recovery of his ass, especially Don Quixote, who told him that though he had found his ass again, yet would not he revoke the warrant he had given him for three asses, for which favour Sancho returned him a multitude of thanks.
While they were travelling together, and discoursing after this manner, the curate addressed himself to Dorothea, and gave her to understand that she had excellently discharged herself of what she had undertaken, as well in the management of the history itself, as in her brevity, and adapting her style to the particular terms made use of in books of knight-errantry. She returned for answer that she had frequently conversed with such romances, but that she was ignorant of the situation of the provinces and the sea-ports, which occasioned the blunder she had made by saying that she landed at Ossuna. "I perceived it," replied the curate, "and therefore I put in what you heard, which brought matters to rights again. But is it not an amazing thing to see how ready this unfortunate gentleman is to give credit to these fictitious reports, only because they have the air of the extravagant stories in books of knight-errantry?" Cardenio said that he thought this so strange a madness that he did not believe the wit of man, with all the liberty of invention and fiction, capable of hitting so extraordinary a character. "The gentleman," replied the curate, "has some qualities in him, even as surprising in a madman as his unparalleled frenzy; for take him but off his romantic humour, discourse with him of any other subject, you will find him to handle it with a great deal of reason, and shew himself, by his conversation, to have very clear and entertaining conceptions; insomuch that if knight-errantry bears no relation to his discourse, there is no man but will esteem him for his vivacity of wit and strength of judgment." While they were thus discoursing, Don Quixote, prosecuting his converse with his squire, "Sancho," said he, "let us lay aside all manner of animosity; let us forget and forgive injuries; and answer me as speedily as thou canst, without any remains of thy last displeasure, how, when, and where didst thou find my Lady Dulcinea?What was she doing when thou first paidst thy respects to her? How didst thou express thyself to her? What answer was she pleased to make thee? What countenance did she put on at the perusal of my letter? Who transcribed it fairly for thee? And every thing else which has any relation to this affair, without addition, lies, or flattery. On the other side, take care thou losest not a tittle of the whole matter, by abbreviating it, lest thou rob me of part of that delight which I propose to myself from it." "Sir," answered Sancho, "if I must speak the truth, and nothing but the truth, nobody copied out that letter for me; for I carried none at all." "That's right," cried Don Quixote; "for I found the pocket-book in which it was written two days after thy departure, which occasioned exceeding grief in me, because I knew not what thou couldst do when thou foundst thyself without the letter; and I could not but be induced to believe that thou wouldst have returned, in order to take it with thee." "I had certainly done so," replied Sancho, "were it not for this head of mine, which kept it in remembrance ever since your worship read it to me, and helped me to say it over to a parish-clerk, who wrote it out to me word for word so purely, that he vowed, though he had written out many a letter of excommunication in his time, he never in all the days of his life had read or seen any thing so well spoken as it was." "And dost thou still retain the memory of it, my dear Sancho?" cried Don Quixote. "Not I," quoth Sancho; "for as soon as I had given it her, and your turn was served, I was very willing to forget it. But if I remember any thing, it is what was on the top; and it was thus, 'High and subterrene'—I would say sovereign, lady; and at the bottom, 'yours until death, the Knight of the Sorrowful Figure;' and I put between these two things three hundred souls and lives."
The pleasant dialogue between Don Quixote and his Squire continued; with other adventures.
"Allthis is mighty well," said Don Quixote; "proceed therefore: you arrived, and how was that queen of beauty then employed? On my conscience thou foundst her stringing of orient pearls, or embroidering some curious device in gold for me her captive knight; was it not so, my Sancho?" "No," answered the squire; "I found her winnowing a parcel of wheat very seriously in the back-yard." "Then," said the Don, "you may rest assured that every corn of that wheat was a grain of pearl, since she did it the honour of touching it with her divine hand. Didst thou observe the quality of the wheat, was it not of the finest sort?" "Very indifferent, I thought," said the squire."Well, this at least you must allow; it must make the finest whitest bread, if sifted by her white hands. But go on; when you delivered my letter, did she kiss it? Did she treasure it in her bosom? or what ceremony did she use worthy such a letter? How did she behave herself?" "Why truly, sir," answered Sancho, "when I offered her the letter she was very busy handling her sieve; 'and, pr'ythee, honest friend,' said she, 'do so much as lay that letter down upon that sack there; I cannot read it till I have winnowed out what is in my hands.'" "O unparalleled discretion!" cried Don Quixote; "she knew that a perusal required leisure, and therefore deferred it for her more pleasing and private hours. But oh, my squire, while she was thus employed what conference passed? What did she ask about her knight, and what did you reply? Say all, say all, my dearest Sancho, let not the smallest circumstance escape the tongue; speak all that thought can frame or pen describe." "Her questions were easily answered, sir," said Sancho; "for she asked me none at all. I told her, indeed, in what a sad pickle I had left you, and how disconsolate you were; that you eat and slept like the brute beasts; that you would let a razor as soon touch your throat as your beard; that you were still blubbering and crying, or lamenting and cursing your fortune." "There you mistook," replied Don Quixote; "I rather bless my fortune, and always shall, while life affords me breath, since I am thought to merit the esteem of so high a lady as Dulcinea del Toboso. But now," continued the knight, "supposing the corn winnowed and despatched to the mill, what did she after she had read my letter?" "Your letter, sir," answered Sancho, "your letter was not read at all, sir; as, for her part, she said she could neither read nor write, and she would trust nobody else, lest they should tell tales, and so she cunningly tore your letter. She said that what I told her by word of mouth of your love and sufferings was enough: to make short now, she gave her service to you, and said she had rather see you than hear from you; and she prayed you, if ever you loved her, upon sight of me forthwith to leave your madness among the bushes here, and come straight to Toboso (if you be at leisure), for she has something to say to you, and has a huge mind to see you; she had like to burst with laughing, when I called you the Knight of the Sorrowful Figure."
"Thus far all goes well," said Don Quixote; "but tell me, pray, what jewel did she present you at your departure, as a reward for the news you brought? for it is a custom of ancient standing among knights and ladies errant, to bestow on squires, dwarfs, or damsels, who bring them good news of their ladies or servants some precious jewel as a grateful reward of their welcome tidings." "Ah, sir," said Sancho, "that was the fashion in the days of yore, and a very good fashion, I take it; but all the jewels Sancho got was a luncheon of bread and a piece ofcheese, which she handed to me over the wall, when I was taking my leave: by the same token (I hope there is no ill luck in it), the cheese was made of sheep's milk." "It is strange," said Don Quixote, "for she is liberal even to profuseness; and if she presented thee not a jewel, she had certainly none about her at that time; but what is deferred is not lost. I shall see her, and matters shall be accommodated. But, Sancho, one thing raises my astonishment, which is thy sudden return; for proportioning thy short absence to the length of thy journey, Toboso being at least thirty leagues distant, thou must have ridden on the wind. Certainly the sagacious enchanter, who is my guardian and friend,—for doubtless such a one there is and ought to be, or I should not be a true knight-errant,—certainly, I say, that wise magician has furthered thee on thy journey unawares; for there are sages of such incredible power as to take up a knight-errant sleeping in his bed, and waken him next morning a thousand leagues from the place where he fell asleep. By this power knights-errant succour one another in their most dangerous exigents when and where they please. For instance, suppose me fighting in the mountains of Armenia with some horrid monster, some dreadful sprite, or fierce gigantic knight, where perhaps I am like to be worsted (such a thing may happen), when just in the very crisis of my fate, when I least expect it, I behold on the top of a flying cloud, or riding in a flaming chariot, another knight, my friend, who but a minute before was in England perhaps—he sustains me, delivers me from death, and returns that night to his own lodging, where he sups with a very good appetite after his journey, having rid you two or three thousand leagues that day; and all this performed by the industry and wisdom of these knowing magicians, whose only business and charge is glorious knight-errantry. Some such expeditious power, I believe, Sancho, though hidden from you, has promoted so great a despatch in your late journey." "I believe, indeed," answered Sancho, "that there was witchcraft in the case; for Rozinante went without spur all the way, and was as mettlesome as though he had been a gipsy's ass with quicksilver in his ears." "And what is thy advice as to my lady's commands to visit her? I know her power should regulate my will. But then my honour, Sancho; my solemn promise has engaged me to the princess's service that comes with us; and the law of arms confines me to my word. Love draws me one, and glory the other way; on this side Dulcinea's strict commands, on the other my promised faith; but—it is resolved. I will travel night and day, cut off this giant's head, and, having settled the princess in her dominions, will presently return to see that sun which enlightens my senses. She will easily condescend to excuse my absence when I convince her it was for her fame and glory; since the past, present, and future success of my victorious arms dependswholly on the gracious influences of her favour, and the honour of being her knight." "Oh sad! oh sad!" said Sancho; "I doubt your worship's head is much the worse for wearing. Are you mad, sir, to take so long a voyage for nothing? why don't you catch at this preferment that now offers, where a fine kingdom is the portion, twenty thousand leagues round, they say; nay, bigger than Portugal and Castile both together. Good your worship, hold your tongue, I wonder you are not ashamed. Take a fool's counsel for once, marry her by the first priest you meet; here is our own curate can do the job most curiously. Come, master, I have hair enough in my beard to make a counsellor, and my advice is as fit for you as your shoe for your foot—a bird in hand is worth two in the bush, and
He that will not when he may,When he would he shall have nay."
He that will not when he may,When he would he shall have nay."
He that will not when he may,When he would he shall have nay."
"Thou advisest me thus," answered Don Quixote, "that I may be able to promote thee according to my promise; but that I can do without marrying this lady; for I shall make this the condition of entering into battle, that after my victory, without marrying the princess, she shall leave part of her kingdom at my disposal, to gratify whom I please; and who can claim any such gratuity but thyself?" "That's plain," answered Sancho; "but pray, sir, take care that you reserve some part near the sea-side for me; that if the air does not agree with me, I may transport my black slaves, make my profit of them, and go live somewhere else; so that I would have you resolve upon it presently: leave the Lady Dulcinea for the present, and go kill this same giant, and make an end of that business first; for I assure you it will yield you a good market." "I am fixed in thy opinion," said Don Quixote; "but I admonish thee not to whisper to any person the least hint of our conference; for since Dulcinea is so cautious and secret, it is proper that I and mine should follow her example." "Why then," said Sancho, "should you send every body you overcome packing to Madam Dulcinea, to fall down before her and tell her they came from you to pay their obedience, when this tells all the world that she is your mistress, as much as if they had it under your own hand?" "How dull of apprehension and stupid thou art!" said the knight; "hast thou not sense to find that all this redounds to her greater glory? Know, that in proceedings of chivalry, a lady's honour is calculated from the number of her servants, whose services must not tend to any reward but the favour of her acceptance, and the pure honour of performing them for her sake, and being called her servants."
Master Nicholas, seeing them so deep in discourse, called to them to stop and drink at a little fountain by the road. Don Quixote halted; and Sancho was very glad of the interruption,his stock of fiction being almost spent, and he stood in danger besides of being trapped in his words; for he had never seen Dulcinea, though he knew she lived at Toboso. Cardenio by this time had changed his clothes for those Dorothea wore when they found her in the mountains; and though they made but an ordinary figure, they looked much better than those he had put off.[5]They all stopped at the fountain, and fell upon the curate's provision, which was but a snap among so many, for they were all very hungry. While they sat refreshing themselves, a young lad, travelling that way, observed them, and looking earnestly on the whole company, ran suddenly and fell down before Don Quixote, addressing him in a very doleful manner. "Alas, good sir," said he, "don't you know me? don't you remember poor Andres, whom you caused to be untied from the tree?" With that the knight knew him; and raising him up, turned to the company; "That you may all know," said he, "of how great importance to the redressing of injuries, punishing vice, and the universal benefit of mankind, the business of knight-errantry may be, you must understand, that riding through a desert some days ago, I heard certain lamentable shrieks and outcries. Prompted by the misery of the afflicted, and borne away by the zeal of my profession, I followed the voice, and found this boy, whom you all see, bound to a great oak; I am glad he is present, because he can attest the truth of my relation. I found him, as I told you, bound to an oak; naked from the waist upwards, and a bloody-minded peasant scourging his back unmercifully with the reins of a bridle. I presently demanded the cause of his severe chastisement. The rude fellow answered, that he had liberty to punish his own servant, whom he thus used for some faults that argued him more knave than fool. 'Good sir,' said the boy, 'he can lay nothing to my charge but demanding my wages.' His master made some reply, which I would not allow as a just excuse, and ordered him immediately to unbind the youth, and took his oath that he would take him home and pay him all his wages upon the nail, in good and lawful coin. Is not this literally true, Andres? Did you not mark, besides, with what face of authority I commanded, and with how much humility he promised to obey all I imposed, commanded, and desired? Answer me, boy; and tell boldly all that passed to this worthy company, that it may appear how necessary the vocation of knights-errant is up and down the high roads."
[5]These must be the ragged apparel Cardenio wore before he was dressed in the priest's short cassock and cloak.
[5]These must be the ragged apparel Cardenio wore before he was dressed in the priest's short cassock and cloak.
"All you have said is true enough," answered Andres; "but the business did not end after that manner you and I hoped it would." "How!" said the knight; "has not the peasant paid you?" "Ay, he has paid me with a vengeance," said the boy;"for no sooner was your back turned but he tied me again to the same tree, and lashed me so horridly that I looked like St. Bartholomew flayed alive; and at every blow he had some joke or another to laugh at you; and had he not laid on me as he did, I fancy I could not have helped laughing myself. At last he left me, in so pitiful a case that I was forced to crawl to a hospital, where I have lain ever since to get cured, so wofully the tyrant had lashed me. And now I may thank you for this; for had you rode on your journey, and neither meddled nor made, seeing nobody sent for you, and it was none of your business, my master, perhaps, had been satisfied with giving me ten or twenty lashes, and after that would have paid me what he owed me; but you was so huffy, and called him so many names, that it made him mad, and so he vented all his spite against you upon my poor back, as soon as yours was turned, inasmuch that I fear I shall never be mine own man again." "The miscarriage," answered the knight, "is only chargeable on my departure before I saw my orders executed; for I might by experience have remembered that the word of a peasant is regulated, not by honour, but by profit. But you remember, Andres, how I said, that if he disobeyed, I would return and seek him through the universe, and find him though hid in a whale's belly." "Ah, sir," answered Andres, "but that is no cure for my sore shoulders." "You shall be redressed," answered the knight, starting fiercely up, and commanding Sancho immediately to bridle Rozinante, who was baiting as fast as the rest of the company. Dorothea asked what he intended to do: he answered, that he intended to find out the villain, and punish him severely for his crimes, then force him to pay Andres his wages to the last maravedi,[6]in spite of all the peasants in the universe. She then desired him to remember his engagements to her, which withheld him from any new achievement till that was finished; that he must therefore suspend his resentments till his return from her kingdom. "It is but just and reasonable," said the knight; "and therefore Andres must wait with patience my return; but when I do return, I do hereby ratify my former oath and promise, never to rest till he be fully satisfied and paid." "I dare not trust to that," answered Andres; "but if you will bestow on me as much money as will bear my charges to Seville, I shall thank your worship more than for all the revenge you tell me of. Give me a snap to eat, and a bit in my pocket; and so Heaven be with you and all other knights-errant, and may they prove as arrant fools in their own business as they have been in mine."
[6]Near the value of a farthing.
[6]Near the value of a farthing.
Sancho took a crust of bread and a slice of cheese, and reaching it to Andres, "There, friend," said he, "there is something for thee; on my word, we have all of us a share of thy mischance.""What share?" said Andres. "Why, the cursed mischance of parting with this bread and cheese to thee; for my head to a halfpenny, I may live to want it; for thou must know, friend of mine, that we, the squires of knights-errant, often pick our teeth without a dinner, and are subject to many other things which are better felt than told." Andres snatched at the provender, and seeing no likelihood of any more, he made his leg and marched off. But looking over his shoulder at Don Quixote, "Hark ye, you Sir Knight-errant," cried he, "if ever you meet me again in your travels, which I hope you never shall, though I were torn in pieces, do not trouble me with your foolish help, but mind your own business; and so fare you well, with a plague upon you and all the knights-errant that ever were born!" The knight thought to chastise him, but the lad was too nimble for any there, and his heels carried him off, leaving Don Quixote highly incensed at his story, which moved the company to hold their laughter, lest they should raise his anger to a dangerous height.
What befell Don Quixote and his company at the inn.
Whenthey had eaten plentifully they left that place, and travelled all that day and the next without meeting anything worth notice, till they came to the inn, which was so frightful a sight to poor Sancho, that he would willingly not have gone in, but could by no means avoid it. The innkeeper, the hostess, her daughter, and Maritornes, met Don Quixote and his squire with a very hearty welcome. The knight received them with a face of gravity and approbation, bidding them prepare him a better bed than their last entertainment afforded him. "Sir," said the hostess, "pay us better than you did then, and you shall have a bed for a prince." And upon the knight's promise that he would, she promised him a tolerable bed in the large room where he lay before. He presently undressed, and being heartily crazed in body as well as in mind, he went to bed. He was scarcely got to his chamber, when the hostess flew suddenly at the barber, and catching him by the beard, "On my life," said she, "you shall use my tail no longer for a beard; pray, sir, give me my tail; my husband wants it to stick his comb into; and my tail I will have, sir." The barber surrendered the hostess her tail, with the other trinkets which he had borrowed to decoy Don Quixote out of the desert. Dorothea's beauty and Cardenio's handsome shape surprised every body. The curate bespoke supper; and the host, being pretty secure of his reckoning, soon got them a tolerableentertainment. They would not disturb the knight, who slept very soundly, for his distemper wanted rest more than meat; but they diverted themselves with the hostess's account of his encounter with the carriers, and of Sancho's being tossed in a blanket. Don Quixote's unaccountable madness was the principal subject of their discourse; upon which the curate insisting and arguing that it proceeded from his reading romances, the innkeeper took him up.
"Sir," said he, "you cannot make me of your opinion; for, in my mind, it is the pleasantest reading that ever was. I have now in the house two or three books of that kind, and some other pieces that really have kept me and many others alive. In harvest-time, a great many of the reapers come to drink here in the heat of the day, and he that can read best among us takes up one of these books, and all the rest of us, sometimes thirty or more, sit round about him and listen with such pleasure that we think neither of sorrow nor care. As for my own part, when I hear the mighty blows and dreadful battles of those knights-errant, I have half a mind to be one myself, and am raised to such a life and briskness that I could frighten away old age. I could sit and hear them from morning till night." "I wish you would, husband," said the hostess; "for then we should have some rest; for at all other times you are so out of humour and so snappish that we lead a sad life with you." "And what think you of this matter, young miss?" said the curate to the innkeeper's daughter. "Alack-a-day, sir," said she, "I do not understand those things, and yet I love to hear them; but I do not like that frightful ugly fighting that so pleases my father. Indeed, the sad lamentations of the poor knights for the loss of their mistresses sometimes makes me cry like any thing." "I suppose, then, young gentlewoman," said Dorothea, "you will be tender-hearted, and will never let a lover die for you." "I do not know what may happen as to that," said the girl; "but this I know, that I will never give any body reason to call me tigress and lioness, and I do not know how many other ugly names, as those ladies are often called; and I think they deserve yet worse, so they do; for they can never have soul nor conscience to let such fine gentlemen die or run mad for a sight of them. What signifies all their fiddling and coyness? If they are civil women, why do not they marry them; for that is all their knights would be at?" "Hold your prating, mistress," said the hostess, "how came you to know all this? It is not for such as you to talk of these matters." "The gentleman only asked me a question," said she, "and it would be uncivil not to answer him." "Well," said the curate, "do me the favour, good landlord, to bring out these books that I may have a sight of them."
"With all my heart," said the innkeeper; and with that, stepping to his chamber, he opened a little portmanteau that shutwith a chain, and took out three large volumes, with a parcel of manuscripts in a fair legible letter. The title of the first was Don Cirongilio of Thrace; the second Felixmarte of Hircania; and the third was the History of the great Captain Gonçalo Hernandes de Corduba, and the Life of Diego Garcia de Paredes, bound together.[7]The curate, reading the title, turned to the barber, and told him they wanted now Don Quixote's housekeeper and his niece. "I shall do as well with the books," said the barber; "for I can find the way to the back-yard, or to the chimney; there is a good fire that will do their business." "Business!" said the innkeeper, "I hope you would not burn my books?" "Only two of them," said the curate; "this same Don Cirongilio and his friend Felixmarte." "I hope, sir," said the host, "they are neither heretics nor flegmatics." "Schismatics, you mean," said the barber. "I mean so," said the innkeeper; "and if you must burn any, let it be this of Gonçalo Hernandes and Diego Garcia; for you should sooner burn one of my children than the others." "These books, honest friend," said the curate, "that you appear so concerned for are senseless rhapsodies of falsehood and folly; and this which you so despise is a true history, and contains a true account of two celebrated men. The first by his bravery and courage purchased immortal fame, and the name of the Great General, by the universal consent of mankind; and the other, Diego Garcia de Paredes, was of noble extraction, and born in Truxillo, a town of Estremadura, and was a man of singular courage, and of such mighty strength, that with one of his hands he could stop a mill-wheel in its most rapid motion, and with his single force defended the passage of a bridge against an immense army. Several other great actions are related in the memoirs of his life, but all with so much modesty and unbiassed truth, that they easily pronounce him his own historiographer; and had they been written by any one else, with freedom and impartiality, they might have eclipsed your Hectors, Achilles's, and Orlandos, with all their heroic exploits." "That's a fine jest, truly," said the innkeeper; "my father could have told you another tale, sir. Holding a mill-wheel! why, is that such a mighty matter? Only do but turn over a leaf of Felixmarte there; you will find how with one single back-stroke he cut five swinging giants off by the middle, as if they had been so many bean-cods, of which the children make little puppet-friars; and read how at another time he charged a most mighty and powerful army of above a million and six hundred thousand fighting men, all armed cap-a-pie, and routed them all like so many sheep. And what can you say of the worthy Cirongilio of Thrace? who, as you may read there, going by water oneday, was assaulted by a fiery serpent in the middle of the river; he presently leaped nimbly upon her back, and, hanging by her scaly neck, grasped her throat fast with both his arms, so that the serpent, finding herself almost strangled, was forced to dive into the water to save herself, and carried the knight, who would not quit his hold, to the very bottom, where he found a stately palace and such pleasant gardens that it was a wonder; and straight the serpent turned into a very old man, and told him such things as were never heard nor spoken. Now, a fig for your Great Captain and your Diego Garcia." Dorothea, hearing this, said softly to Cardenio, that the host was capable of making a second part to Don Quixote. "I think so too," cried Cardenio, "for it is plain he believes every tittle contained in those books; nor can all the Carthusian friars in the world persuade him otherwise." "I tell thee, friend," said the curate, "there were never any such persons as your books of chivalry mention upon the face of the earth; your Felixmarte of Hircania and your Cirongilio of Thrace are all but chimeras and fictions of idle and luxuriant wits, who wrote them for the same reason that you read them, because they had nothing else to do." "Sir," said the innkeeper, "you must angle with another bait, or you will catch no fish; I know what's what as well as another; I can tell where my own shoe pinches me; and you must not think, sir, to catch old birds with chaff. A pleasant jest indeed, that you should pretend to persuade me now that these notable books are lies and stories! why, sir, are they not in print? Are they not published according to order? licensed by authority from the privy council? And do you think that they would permit so many untruths to be printed, and such a number of battles and enchantments, to set us all a-madding?" "I have told you already, friend," replied the curate, "that this is licensed for our amusement in our idle hours: for the same reason that tennis, billiards, chess, and other recreations are tolerated, that men may find a pastime for those hours they cannot find employment for. Neither could the government foresee this inconvenience from such books that you urge, because they could not reasonably suppose any rational person would believe their absurdities. And were this a proper time, I could say a great deal in favour of such writings; and how, with some regulations, they might be made both instructive and diverting. But I design upon the first opportunity to communicate my thoughts on this head to some that may redress it. In the mean time, honest landlord, you may put up your books, and believe them true if you please, and much good may they do you. And I wish you may never halt on the same foot as your guest, Don Quixote." "There's no fear of that," said the innkeeper; "for I never design to turn knight-errant, because I find the customs that supported the noble order are quite out of doors."
[7]These were not fabulous heroes, though romantic authors have added much of fable to their true history.
[7]These were not fabulous heroes, though romantic authors have added much of fable to their true history.
Of the dreadful battle betwixt Don Quixote and certain Wine-skins.
Theconversation was hardly concluded when Sancho Panza came running out of Don Quixote's chamber in a terrible fright, crying out, "Help, help, good people! help my master! He is just now at it tooth and nail with that same giant, the Princess Micomicona's foe; I never saw a more dreadful battle in my born days. He has lent him such a blow, that whip off went the giant's head, as round as a turnip." "You are mad, Sancho," said the curate, starting up astonished; "is thy master such a wonderful hero as to fight a giant at two thousand leagues distance?" Upon this they presently heard a noise and bustle in the chamber, and Don Quixote bawling out, "Stay, villain! robber, stay! since I have thee here, thy scimitar shall but little avail thee!" and with this they heard him strike with his sword with all his force against the walls. "Good folks," said Sancho, "my master does not want your hearkening; why do not you run in and help him? though I believe it is after-meat mustard; for sure the giant is dead by this time, and giving an account of his ill life; for I saw his blood run all about the house, and his head sailing in the middle on it; but such a head! it is bigger than any wine-skin in Spain."[8]"Mercy on me!" cried the innkeeper, "I will be cut like a cucumber, if this Don Quixote, or Don Devil, has not been hacking my wine-skins that stood filled at his bed's head, and this coxcomb has taken the spilt liquor for blood." Then running with the whole company into the room, they found the poor knight in the most comical posture imaginable.
[8]In Spain they keep their wines in the skin of a goat, sheep, or other beast, pitched within, and sewed close without.
[8]In Spain they keep their wines in the skin of a goat, sheep, or other beast, pitched within, and sewed close without.
He wore on his head a little red greasy nightcap of the innkeeper's; he had wrapped one of the best blankets about his left arm for a shield; and wielded his drawn-sword in the right, laying about him pell-mell; with now and then a start of some military expression, as if he had been really engaged with some giant. But the best jest of all, he was all this time fast asleep; for the thoughts of the adventure he had undertaken had so wrought on his imagination that his depraved fancy had in his sleep represented to him the kingdom of Micomicon and the giant; and dreaming that he was then fighting him, he assaulted the wine-skins so desperately that he set the whole chamber afloat with good wine. The innkeeper, enraged to see the havoc, flew at Don Quixote with his fists; and had not Cardenio and the curate taken him off, he had proved a giant indeed against the knight.All this could not wake the poor Don, till the barber, throwing a bucket of cold water on him, wakened him from his sleep, though not from his dream.
Sancho ran up and down the room searching for the giant's head, till, finding his labour fruitless, "Well, well," said he, "now I see plainly that this house is haunted; for when I was here before, in this very room was I beaten like any stock-fish, but knew no more than the man in the moon who struck me; and now the giant's head that I saw cut off with these eyes is vanished; and I am sure I saw the body spout blood like a pump." "What prating and nonsense!" said the innkeeper; "I tell you, rascal, it is my wine-skins that are slashed, and my wine that runs about the floor here." "Well, well," said Sancho, "do not trouble me; I only tell you that I cannot find the giant's head, and my earldom is gone after it; and so I am undone, like salt in water." And truly Sancho's waking dream was as pleasant as his master's when asleep. The innkeeper was almost mad to see the foolish squire harp so on the same string with his frantic master, and swore they should not come off now as before; that their chivalry should be no satisfaction for his wine, but that they should pay him sauce for the damage, and for the very leathern patches which the wounded wine-skins would want.
Don Quixote in the mean while, believing he had finished his adventure, and mistaking the curate, that held him by the arms, for the Princess Micomicona, fell on his knees before him, and with a respect due to a royal presence, "Now may your highness," said he, "great and illustrious princess, live secure, free from any further apprehensions from your conquered enemy; and now I am acquitted of my engagement, since, by the assistance of Heaven, and the influence of her favour by whom I live and conquer, your adventure is so happily achieved." "Did not I tell you so, gentlefolks?" said Sancho; "who is drunk or mad now? See if my master has not already put the giant in pickle? I am an earl as sure as possible." The whole company (except the unfortunate innkeeper) were highly diverted at the extravagances of both. At last, the barber, Cardenio, and the curate, having with much ado got Don Quixote to bed, he presently fell asleep, being heartily tired; and then they left him to comfort Sancho Panza for the loss of the giant's head; but it was no easy matter to appease the innkeeper, who was at his wit's end for the unexpected and sudden fate of his wine-skins.
The hostess in the mean time ran up and down the house crying and roaring: "In an ill hour," said she, "did this unlucky knight-errant come into my house; I wish, for my part, I had never seen him, for he has been a dear guest to me. He and his man, his horse and his ass went away last time without paying me a cross for their supper, their bed, their litter and provender;and all, forsooth, because he was seeking adventures. What, in the wide world, have we to do with his statutes of chivalry? If they oblige him not to pay, they should oblige him not to eat neither. It was upon this score that the other fellow took away my good tail; it is clean spoiled, the hair is all torn off, and my husband can never use it again. And now to come upon me again with destroying my wine-skins, and spilling my liquor. But I will be paid, so I will, to the last maravedis, or I will disown my name, and forswear my mother." Her honest maid Maritornes seconded her fury; but Master Curate stopped their mouths by promising that he would see them satisfied for their wine and their skins, but especially for the tail which they made such a clatter about. Dorothea comforted Sancho, assuring him that whenever it appeared that his master had killed the giant, and restored her to her dominions, he should be sure of the best earldom in her disposal. With this he buckled up again, and vowed "that he himself had seen the giant's head, by the same token that it had a beard that reached down to his middle; and if it could not be found, it must be hid by witchcraft, for every thing went by enchantment in that house, as he had found to his cost when he was there before." Dorothea answered that she believed him; and desired him to pluck up his spirits, for all things would be well.
Containing an account of many surprising accidents in the inn.
Atthe same time the innkeeper, who stood at the door, seeing company coming, "More guests," cried he; "a brave jolly troop, on my word. If they stop here, we may rejoice." "What are they?" said Cardenio. "Four men," said the host, "on horseback, with black masks on their faces, and armed with lances and targets; a lady too all in white, that rides single and masked; and two running footmen." "Are they near?" said the curate. "Just at the door," replied the innkeeper. Hearing this, Dorothea veiled herself, and Cardenio had just time enough to step into the next room, where Don Quixote lay, when the strangers came into the yard. The four horsemen, who made a very genteel appearance, dismounted and went to help down the lady, whom one of them taking in his arms, carried into the house, where he seated her in a chair by the chamber-door, into which Cardenio had withdrawn. All this was done without discovering their faces, or speaking a word; only the lady, as she sat down in the chair, breathed out a deep sigh, and let her arms sink down in a weak and fainting posture. The curate, marking theirodd behaviour, which raised in him a curiosity to know who they were, went to their servants in the stable, and asked what their masters were? "Indeed, sir," said one of them, "that is more than we can tell you; they seem of no mean quality, especially that gentleman who carried the lady into the house; for the rest pay him great respect, and his word is a law to them." "Who is the lady?" said the curate. "We know no more of her than the rest," answered the fellow; "for we could never see her face all the time, and it is impossible we should know her or them otherwise. They picked us up on the road, and prevailed with us to wait on them to Andalusia, promising to pay us well for our trouble; so that, except the two days' travelling in their company, they are utter strangers to us." "Could you not hear them name one another all this time?" asked the curate. "No, truly, sir," answered the footman; "for we heard them not speak a syllable all the way; the poor lady indeed used to sigh and grieve so piteously, that we are persuaded she has no stomach to this journey." "Very likely," said the curate; and with that leaving them, he returned to the place where he left Dorothea, who, hearing the masked lady sigh so frequently, moved by the natural pity of the soft sex, could not forbear inquiring the cause of her sorrow. "Pardon me, madam," said she, "if I beg to know your grief; and assure yourself that my request does not proceed from mere curiosity, but an earnest inclination to assist you, if your misfortune be such as our sex is naturally subject to, and in the power of a woman to cure." The lady made no return to her compliment, and Dorothea pressed her in vain with new reasons; when the gentleman, whom the footboy signified to be the chief of the company, interposed: "Madam," said he, "do not trouble yourself to throw away any generous offer on that ungrateful woman, whose nature cannot return an obligation; neither expect any answer to your demands, for her tongue is a stranger to truth." "Sir," said the disconsolate lady, "my truth and honour have made me thus miserable, and my sufferings are sufficient to prove you the falsest and most base of men." Cardenio, being only parted from the company by Don Quixote's chamber-door, overheard these last words very distinctly, and immediately cried out, "Good heaven, what do I hear? what voice struck my ear just now?" The lady, startled at his exclamation, sprung from the chair, and would have rushed into the chamber whence the voice came; but the gentleman perceiving it, laid hold of her to prevent her, which so disordered the lady that her mask fell off, and discovered an incomparable face, beautiful as an angel's, though very pale, and strangely discomposed. Dorothea and the rest beheld her with grief and wonder. She struggled so hard, and the gentleman was so disordered by beholding her, that his mask dropped off too, and discovered to Dorothea, who was assisting to hold the lady, the face of her husband Don Fernando.Scarce had she known him when, with a long and dismal "oh!" she fell in a swoon, and would have fallen to the ground, had not the barber, by good fortune, stood behind and supported her. The curate ran presently to help her, and pulling off her veil to throw water in her face, Don Fernando presently knew her, and was struck almost as dead as she at the sight; nevertheless he did not quit Lucinda, who was the lady that struggled so hard to get out of his hands. Cardenio hearing Dorothea's exclamation, and imagining it to be Lucinda's voice, flew into the chamber in great disorder, and the first object he met was Don Fernando holding Lucinda, who presently knew him. They were all struck dumb with amazement: Dorothea gazed on Don Fernando; Don Fernando on Cardenio; and Cardenio and Lucinda on one another.
At last Lucinda broke silence, and addressing Don Fernando, "Let me go," said she; "unloose your hold, my lord: by the generosity you should have, or by your inhumanity, since it must be so, I conjure you leave me, that I may cling like ivy to my old support; and from whom neither your threats, nor prayers, nor gifts, nor promises, could ever alienate my love. Contend not against Heaven, whose power alone could bring me to my dear husband's sight by such strange and unexpected means; you have a thousand instances to convince you that nothing but death can make me ever forget him; let this, at least, turn your love into rage, which may prompt you to end my miseries with my life here before my dear husband, where I shall be proud to lose it, since my death may convince him of my unshaken love and honour till the last minute of my life." Dorothea by this time had recovered, and finding by Lucinda's discourse who she was, and that Don Fernando would not unhand her, she made a virtue of necessity, and falling at his feet, "My lord," cried she, all bathed in tears, "if that beauty which you hold in your arms has not altogether dazzled your eyes, you may behold at your feet the once happy, but now miserable Dorothea. I am the poor and humble villager, whom your generous bounty, I dare not say your love, did condescend to raise to the honour of calling you her own: I am she who, once confined to peaceful innocence, led a contented life, till your importunity, your shew of honour and deluding words, charmed me from my retreat, and made me resign my freedom to your power. How I am recompensed may be guessed by my grief, and my being found here in this strange place, whither I was led, not through any dishonourable ends, but purely by despair and grief to be forsaken of you. It was at your desire I was bound to you by the strictest tie; and whatever you do, you can never cease to be mine. Consider, my dear lord, that my matchless love may balance the beauty and nobility of the person for whom you would forsake me; she cannot share your love, for it is only mine; and Cardenio's interest in her will not admit a partner. It is easier far, my lord, to recall your wandering desires,and fix them upon her that adores you, than to draw her to love who hates you. Have some regard to your honour! remember you are a Christian! Why should you then make her life end so miserably, whose beginning your favour made so happy? If I must not expect the usage and respect of a wife, let me but serve you as a slave; so I belong to you, though in the meanest rank, I shall never complain; let me not be exposed to the slandering reflections of the censorious world by so cruel a separation from my lord; afflict not the declining years of my poor parents, whose faithful services to you and yours have merited a more suitable return."
These, with many such arguments, did the mournful Dorothea urge, appearing so lovely in her sorrow, that Don Fernando's friends, as well as all the rest, sympathised with her; Lucinda particularly, as much admiring her wit and beauty as moved by the tears, the piercing sighs and moans, that followed her entreaties; and she would have gone nearer to have comforted her, had not Fernando's arms, that still held her, prevented it. He stood full of confusion, with his eyes fixed attentively on Dorothea a great while; at last, opening his arms, he quitted Lucinda: "Thou hast conquered," cried he; "charming Dorothea, thou hast conquered; it is impossible to resist so many united truths and charms." Lucinda was still so disordered and weak that she would have fallen when Fernando quitted her, had not Cardenio, without regard to his safety, leaped forward and caught her in his arms, and embracing her with eagerness and joy, "Thanks, gracious Heaven!" cried he aloud, "my dear, my faithful wife, thy sorrows are now ended; for where canst thou rest more safe than in my arms, which now support thee as once they did when my blessed fortune first made thee mine?" Lucinda then opening her eyes and finding herself in the arms of her Cardenio, without regard to ceremony threw her arms about his neck, "Yes," said she, "thou art he, thou art my lord indeed! Now, fortune, act thy worst; nor fears nor threats shall ever part me from the sole support and comfort of my life." This sight was very surprising to Don Fernando and the other spectators. Dorothea perceiving, by Don Fernando's change of countenance, and laying his hand to his sword, that he prepared to assault Cardenio, fell suddenly on her knees, and with an endearing embrace held him so fast that he could not stir. "What means," cried she, all in tears, "the only refuge of my hope? See here thy own and dearest wife at thy feet, and her you would have in her true husband's arms. Think then, my lord, how unjust is your attempt to dissolve that knot which Heaven has tied so fast. Can you ever think or hope success in your design when you see her contemning all dangers, and confirmed in strictest constancy and honour, leaning in tears of joy on her true lover's bosom? For Heaven's sake I entreat you, by your own words I conjure you,to mitigate your anger, and permit that faithful pair to spend their remaining days in peace. Thus may you make it appear that you are generous and truly noble, giving the world so strong a proof that you have your reason at command, and your passion in subjection."
All this while Cardenio, though he still held Lucinda in his arms, had a watchful eye on Don Fernando; resolving, if he had made the least offer to his prejudice, to make him repent it and all his party, if possible, though at the expense of his life. But Don Fernando's friends, the curate, the barber, and all the company (not forgetting honest Sancho Panza), got together about Don Fernando, and entreated him to pity the beautiful Dorothea's tears; that, considering what she had said, the truth of which was apparent, it would be the highest injustice to frustrate her lawful hopes; that their strange and wonderful meeting could not be attributed to chance, but the peculiar and directing providence of Heaven; that nothing but death (as the curate very well urged) could part Cardenio from Lucinda; and that though the edge of his sword might separate them, he would make them happier by death than he could hope to be by surviving; that, in irrecoverable accidents, a submission to Providence, and a resignation of our wills, shewed not only the greatest prudence, but also the highest courage and generosity; that he should not envy those happy lovers what the bounty of Heaven had conferred on them, but that he should turn his eyes on Dorothea's grief, view her incomparable beauty, which, with her true and unfeigned love, made large amends for the meanness of her parentage; but principally it lay upon him, if he gloried in the titles of nobility and Christianity, to keep his promise unviolated; that the more reasonable part of mankind could not otherwise be satisfied, or have any esteem for him. Also, that it was the special prerogative of beauty, if heightened by virtue and adorned with modesty, to lay claim to any dignity without disparagement or scandal to the person that raises it. In short, to these reasons they added so many enforcing arguments, that Don Fernando, who was truly a gentleman, could no longer resist reason, but stooped down, and embracing Dorothea, "Rise, madam," said he; "it is not proper that she should lie prostrate at my feet who triumphs over my soul. If I have not hitherto paid you all the respect I ought, it was perhaps so ordered by Heaven, that having by this a stronger conviction of your constancy and goodness, I may henceforth set the greater value on your merit. Let the future respects and services I shall pay you plead a pardon for my past transgressions; and let the violent passions of my love that first made me yours plead my excuse for that which caused me to forsake you. View the now happy Lucinda's eyes, and there read a thousand farther excuses; but I promise henceforth never to disturb her quiet; and may she live long and contentedwith her dear Cardenio, as I hope to do with my dearest Dorothea."
Cardenio, Lucinda, and the greatest part of the company, could not command their passions, but all wept for joy: even Sancho Panza himself shed tears, though, as he afterwards confessed, it was not for downright grief, but because he found not Dorothea to be the Queen of Micomicona, as he supposed, and of whom he expected so many favours and preferments. Cardenio and Lucinda fell at Don Fernando's feet, giving him thanks with the strongest expressions which gratitude could suggest; he raised them up, and received their acknowledgments with much modesty, then begged to be informed by Dorothea how she came to that place. She related to him all she had told Cardenio, but with such a grace that what were misfortunes to her proved an inexpressible pleasure to those that heard her relation. When she had done, Don Fernando told all that had befallen him in the city after he had found the paper in Lucinda's bosom which declared Cardenio to be her husband; how he would have killed her, had not her parents prevented him; how afterwards, mad with shame and anger, he left the city to wait a more convenient opportunity of revenge; how, in a short time, he learned that Lucinda was fled to a nunnery, resolving to end her days there, if she could not spend them with Cardenio; that, having desired those three gentlemen to go with him, they went to the nunnery, and, waiting till they found the gate open, he left two of the gentlemen to secure the door, while he with the other entered the house, where they found Lucinda talking with a nun in the cloister. They carried her thence to a village, where they disguised themselves for their more convenient flight, which they more easily brought about, the nunnery being situate in the fields, distant a good way from any town. He likewise added how Lucinda, finding herself in his power, fell into a swoon; and that after she came to herself, she continually wept and sighed, but would not speak a syllable; and that, accompanied with silence only and tears, they had travelled till they came to that inn, which proved to him as his arrival at heaven, having put a happy conclusion to all his earthly misfortunes.
The history of the famous Princess Micomicona continued; with other pleasant adventures.
Thejoy of the whole company was unspeakable by the happy conclusion of this perplexed business. Dorothea, Cardenio, and Lucinda thought the sudden change of their affairs too surprisingto be real; and could hardly be induced to believe their happiness. Fernando thanked Heaven a thousand times for having led him out of a labyrinth, in which his honour and virtue were like to have been lost. The curate, as he was very instrumental in the general reconciliation, had likewise no small share in the general joy; and that no discontent might sour their universal satisfaction, Cardenio and the curate engaged to see the hostess satisfied for all the damages committed by Don Quixote; only poor Sancho drooped sadly. He found his lordship and his hopes vanished into smoke; the Princess Micomicona was changed to Dorothea, and the giant to Don Fernando. Thus, very musty and melancholy, he slipt into his master's chamber, who had slept on, and was just wakened, little thinking of what had happened.