BOOK III.

CHAP. I. WHEREIN IS RECOUNTED THE UNLUCKY ADVENTURE WHICH HAPPENED TO DON QUIXOTE, IN MEETING WITH CERTAIN UNMERCIFUL YANGUESIANS.

The sage Cid Hamet Benengeli relates, that Don Quixote having bid adieu to his entertainers, and to all who were present at the funeral of the shepherd Chrysostom, entered, with his squire, the same wood to which Marcella had retreated; where, when they had wandered about upwards of two hours, without seeing her, they chanced to find themselves in a delightful spot, overgrown with verdant grass, and watered by a cool and pleasant stream; which was so inviting as to induce them to stay in it during the heat of the day, that now began to be very sultry; the knight and squire, therefore, dismounting, and leaving the ass and Rozinante at pleasure to regale themselves with the rich pasture, emptied their knapsack; and, without any ceremony, attacked the contents, which they eat together like good friends, laying aside all vain distinction of master and man.

Sancho had been at no pains to tether Rozinante; secure, as he thought, in knowing him to be so meek and peaceable, that all the mares in the meadows of Cordova could not provoke his concupiscence. Chance, however, or the devil, who is not often found napping, ordered it so, as that a drove of Gallician fillies belonging to certain Yanguesian carriers, happened, at that very instant, to be feeding in the same valley: for, it being the custom of these people to halt and refresh themselves and their beasts in places where there is plenty of water and grass, they could not have lighted on a more convenient spot than that where Don Quixote chanced to be. It was then that Rozinante, seized with an inclination to solace himself with some of those skittish females, no sooner had them in the wind, than deviating from his natural disposition and accustomed deliberation, without asking leave of his lord and master, he went off at a small trot, to communicate his occasions to the objects of his desire. But they, it seems, more fond of their pasture than of his addresses, received him so uncivilly with their hoofs and teeth, that, in a twinkling, his girth was broke, his saddle kicked off, and he himself remained in cuerpo. But what he chiefly suffered was from the carriers, who, seeing violence offered to their mares, ran to their assistance with long staves, which they exercised upon him so unmercifully, that he fell prostrate to the ground, almost battered to death.

The knight and Sancho seeing their steed thus bastinadoed, made all the haste they could to his rescue; the former addressing the latter in this manner: ‘I perceive, friend Sancho, that these are no knights, but fellows of low degree and infamous descent: this particular I mention, because thou mayest now assist me in taking just vengeance upon them, for the injury they have done to Rozinante before my face.’—‘What a devil of vengeance can we pretend to take,’ answered the squire, ‘when they are more than twenty, and we but two? Nay, I believe, if it was put to the trial, no better than one and a half.’—‘I myself am worth an hundred of such vagabonds!’ cried Don Quixote: and without uttering another syllable, he unsheathed his sword, and assaulted the Yanguesians, being seconded by Sancho, who suffered himself to be rouzed and encouraged by the example of his master; and, indeed, the knight lent the first he met with such a hearty stroke, as laid open a leathern jacket he wore, together with a large portion of his shoulder.

The carriers seeing themselves thus maltreated by two men only, took the benefit of their numbers, and ran to sustain one another with their staves; then surrounding the two assailants, began to drum upon their carcases with infinite eagerness and dexterity. True it is, at the second application, Sancho fell to the earth; a misfortune that also happened to his master; who, in spite of all his own address, together with the assistance of his good friend, soon found himself stretched at the feet of Rozinante, who had not as yet been able to rise: from whence we may learn what furious execution is often done by packstaves, when managed by the hands of such enraged clowns.

The carriers perceiving the havock they had made, thought proper to load again with all dispatch, and pursue their journey, leaving our adventurers in miserable plight and doleful dilemma. The first that recovered the use of his senses was Sancho Panza; who, finding himself laid along by the side of his master, pronounced, with a weak and lamentable voice, ‘Sir Don Quixote! ah, Sir Don Quixote!’—‘What wouldst thou have, brother Sancho?’ replied the knight, in the same feeble and complaining tone. ‘I wish,’ resumed Sancho, ‘your worship would, if it be possible, comfort me with a couple of gulps of that same balsam made by fairy Blas, if you have got any of it about you: perhaps it may be serviceable in bruises and broken bones, as well as in wounds and running sores.’—‘Would to God I had it here, unfortunate wight that I am!’ cried Don Quixote; ‘but I swear to thee, Sancho, on the faith of a knight-errant, that ere two days pass, if some mischievous accident does not intervene, I will have it in my possession, if my hands do not very much misgive me.’—‘In how many days does your worship think we shall be able to move our feet?’ said the squire. ‘With regard to myself,’ answered the battered knight, ‘I really cannot fix any number of days; but this I know, that I alone am to blame for what has happened, in condescending to use my sword against antagonists who were not dubbed and knighted like myself. I therefore firmly believe, that as a punishment for having transgressed the laws of chivalry, the God of battles hath permitted me to receive this disgraceful chastisement; for which reason, brother Sancho, it is proper that thou shouldst be apprized of what I am going to say, as it may be of great importance to the safety of us both: whenever thou shalt see us insulted or aggrieved for the future, by such rascally scum, thou shalt not wait for my drawing upon them; for I will in no shape meddle with such unworthy foes; but lay thy hand upon thy sword, and with thy own arm chastise them to thy heart’s content; but should any knights make up to their defence and assistance, then shall I know how to protect thee, and assault them with all my might; and thou art already convinced, by a thousand amazing proofs, how far extends the valour of this my invincible arm.’ So arrogant was the poor knight become by his victory over the valiant Biscayan.

This wholesome advice, however, was not so much relished by Sancho, but that he replied, ‘Sir, I am a quiet, meek, peaceable man, and can digest any injury, be it never so hard; for I have a wife and small children to maintain and bring up: wherefore, let me also apprize, (since I cannot lay my commands upon) your worship, that I will in no shape whatever use my sword against either knight or knave; and that henceforward, in the fight of God, I forgive all injuries, past, present, or to come, which I have already received, at this present time suffer, or may hereafter undergo, from any person whatsoever, high or low, rich or poor, gentle or simple, without exception to rank or circumstance.’

His master hearing this declaration, answered, ‘I with the grievous pain I feel in this rib would abate a little, so as that I could speak for a few moments with ease, and convince thee of thy damnable error, Panza. Hark ye me, sinner! suppose the gale of fortune, which hath been hitherto so adverse, should change in our favour; and, swelling the sails of our desire, conduct us safely, without the least impediment, into the haven of some one of those islands which I have promised thee: what would become of thy wretched affairs, if after I had won and given it into thy possession, thou shouldst frustrate my intention, by thy lack of knighthood, ambition, valour and courage, to revenge thy wrongs, or defend thy government? for I would have thee to know, that in all new-conquered kingdoms or provinces, the friends of their natural masters are never so quiet or reconciled to their new sovereign, as to dispel all fear of some fresh insurrection, to alter the government again, and, as the saying is, try fortune once more: it is therefore requisite that the new possessor should have understanding to govern, resolution to punish, and valour to defend himself, in case of any such accident.’

‘In this last accident which hath befallen us,’ said Sancho, ‘I wish the Lord had pleased to give me that same understanding and valour your worship mentions: but I protest, upon the word of a poor sinner, that I am at present more fit for a searcloth than such conversation. See if your worship can make shift to rise, and then we will give some assistance to Rozinante, though it be more than he deserves; for he was the principal cause of all this plaguy-rib-roasting: never could I believe such a thing of Rozinante, who I always thought was as chaste and sober a person as myself; but this verifies the common remark, that you must keep company a long time with a man before you know him thoroughly; and that there is nothing certain in this life. Who could have thought that those huge back-strokes your worship dealt so heartily to the unlucky traveller, would be followed, as it were post-haste, by such a mighty tempest of blows, as just now discharged itself upon our shoulders!’—‘Thy carcase, Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, ‘was formed for enduring such rough weather; but my limbs were tenderly nursed in soft wool and fine linen; and therefore must feel more sensibly the pain of this discomfiture; and if I did not believe (believe, said I) if I were not certain, that all these inconveniencies are inseparably annexed to the exercise of arms, I would lie still where I am, and die with pure vexation.’

To this protestation the squire replied, ‘Seeing these misfortunes are the natural crops of chivalry, pray good your worship, do they happen at all times of the year, or only fall at an appointed season; because, in my simple conjecture, two such harvests will leave us altogether incapable of reaping a third, if God, of his infinite mercy, will not be pleased to send us extraordinary succour.’—‘Thou must know, friend Sancho,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘that the life of a knight-errant is subject to a thousand dangers and mishaps; but then he enjoys the self-same chance of being a king or emperor, as experience demonstrates to have been the case of divers and sundry knights, the history of whose lives I am perfectly well acquainted with; and I could now relate, if this pain would give me leave, the fortunes of some, who, by their valour alone, have risen to that supreme degree: and those very persons, both before and after their success, have undergone various calamities and affliction; witness the valiant Amadis de Gaul, who saw himself in the power of his mortal enemy Arcalaus the inchanter, of whom it is positively affirmed, that while the knight was his prisoner, he caused him to be bound to a pillar in his court-yard, and gave him two hundred stripes with the reins of his horse’s bridle. There is likewise a certain secret author of no small credit, who relates that the knight of the sun was caught in a trap in a certain castle, and falling found himself tied hand and foot in a deep dungeon below ground, where was administered unto him one of those things they call clysters, composed of sand and water, which had well nigh cost him his life; and if he had not been succoured in that perilous conjuncture by a sage who was his good friend, the poor knight would have fared very ill. Wherefore what hath happened to me, may easily pass unheeded, among those much greater affronts that such worthy people have undergone: besides, I would have thee know, Sancho, that it is never reckoned an affront to be wounded by those instruments which are casually in the hands of our enemies; for it is expressly mentioned in the laws of duelling, that if a shoe-maker beats a man with a last he has by accident in his hand, the man cannot properly be said to be cudgelled, although the said last was made of wood. This particular I mention, that thou mayest not suppose us affronted, although we have been mauled in this unlucky fray; for the weapons with which those men threshed us so severely, were no other than their own pack-staves; and so far as I can remember, there was neither tuck, poignard, nor sword, among them.’

‘They did not give me time,’ answered Sancho, ‘to make any such observation: for scarce had I laid my fingers upon my Toledo[56], when there rained a shower of cudgels upon my poor shoulders, that banished the light from my eyes, and strength from my feet, and laid me flat upon the spot where I now lie, not so much concerned about thinking whether this drubbing be an affront or not, as about the intolerable pain of the blows, which remain imprinted upon my memory as well as upon my carcase.’——‘Notwithstanding all this complaining,’ said the knight, ‘I aver, brother Sancho, that there is no remembrance which time does not efface, nor pain that death does not remove.’—‘And pray, what greater misfortune can there be,’ answered Sancho, ‘than that which nothing but time can remove, or death put a stop to? If this mishap of ours were such a one as might be cured with a couple of snips of searcloth, it would not be altogether so vexatious; but so far as I can see, all the plaister of an hospital will not be sufficient to set us cleverly on our legs again.’

‘Truce with thy reflections,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘and collecting strength out of weakness, as I will endeavour to do, let us rise and examine Rozinante’s case; for, in all appearance, the poor beast hath not suffered the least part of the misfortune.’—‘That is not to be wondered at,’ said the squire, ‘he being a knight-errant also; but what surprizes me most is, that my dapple should get off without paying his score, when we are scored all over.’—‘Destiny, when one door is shut, always leaves another open, is a resource in all calamities,’ said Don Quixote: ‘this I observe, because thy ass will now supply the place of Rozinante, and carry me from hence to some castle, where my wounds may be cured: more especially as such carriage will be no dishonour to chivalry; for I remember to have read, that the good old Silenus, tutor and companion to the jolly god of mirth and wine, entered the city of the hundred gates, lolling at his ease upon a most comely ass.’—‘It may be very true that he rode upon an ass,’ replied Sancho; ‘but there is some difference, I apprehend, between riding, and lying across the beast like a bag of dirt.’ To this observation the knight answered, ‘Those wounds which are received in battle, may well give, but can never deprive one of honour: therefore, friend Sancho, do as I bid thee, without farther reply; get up as well as thou canst, and lay me upon dapple just as thou shalt find most convenient, that we may be gone before night comes to surprize us in this unfrequented place.’

‘And yet,’ said Sancho, ‘I have heard your worship remark, that it is usual for knights-errant to sleep upon commons and heaths the greatest part of the year; aye, and to be thankful for their good fortune in being able so to do.’—‘Yes,’ said the knight, ‘when they can do no better, or are in love; and this is so true, that there was a knight who lay upon a bare rock, exposed to the sultry noon and midnight damps, with all the inclemencies of the weather, during two whole years, before his mistress knew any thing of the matter: this was no other than Amadis, who, assuming the name of Beltenebros, took up his quarters upon the naked rock, for the space of either eight years, or eight months, I really do not remember which; only that he remained doing penance in that place, for some disgust shewn to him by his dame Oriana: but truce with this conversation, Sancho, and make haste, before such another accident can happen to thy beast, as that which hath already befallen Rozinante.’

‘Odds my life! that would be the devil indeed!’ cried Sancho, who uttering thirty ah’s and sixty oh’s! together with a hundred and fifty ola’s! and curses upon him who had brought him to that pass, raised himself up, though he could not for his soul stand upright, but in spite of all his efforts, remained bent like a Turkish bow; and in that attitude, with infinite labour, made shift to equip his ass, which had also gone a little astray, presuming upon the excessive licence of the time; he then lifted up Rozinante, who, could he have found a tongue to complain with, would certainly have surpassed both his master and Sancho in lamentation: in short, the squire disposed of Don Quixote upon the ass, to whose tail Rozinante was tied; then taking his own dapple by the halter, jogged on, sometimes faster, sometimes slower, towards the place where he conjectured the high road to lie; and indeed, they had not exceeded a short league, when by good luck, which now seemed to take the management of their affairs, they arrived at the highway, and discovered an inn, which, to Sancho’s great grief, was mistaken for a castle by the joyful knight. This difference of opinion begat an obstinate dispute that lasted until they arrived at the place, into which Sancho immediately conveyed his cargo, without farther expostulation.

Footnote 56:

Tizona, which is the word in the original, is a romantick name given to the sword that belonged to Roderick Dias de Bivar, the famous Spanish general against the Moors.

CHAP. II. THE ADVENTURE THAT HAPPENED TO THIS SAGACIOUS KNIGHT AT THE INN, WHICH HE MISTOOK FOR A CASTLE.

The innkeeper seeing Don Quixote laid athwart the ass, asked what was the matter? to which interrogation Sancho replied, ‘Nothing but a few bruises which my master has received in a fall from a rock in this neighbourhood.’ The landlady, who differed in disposition from most of your innkeepers wives, being naturally charitable and sympathizing with the calamities of her fellow-creatures, came running to the relief of the battered knight, and brought her daughter, who was a very handsome girl, to assist in taking care of her guest. There was in the same house a servant-maid from the Asturies, remarkable for her capacious countenance, beetle brow’d, flat-nosed, blind of one eye, and bleared in the other: true it is, the gentility of her shape made amends for her other defects; she was something short of seven hands from head to foot, and moreover incumbered so much by her shoulders, that she was obliged to contemplate the dust beneath her feet oftener than she could have wished.

This comely creature, with the assistance of the other damsel, made up a sort of sorry bed for our hero in a garret; which gave evident tokens of having been formerly an hay-loft, and in which at that time a certain carrier had taken up his quarters, in a bed of his own making, a little on one side our knight’s: and though his couch was composed of the pannels and furniture of his mules, it had greatly the advantage over Don Quixote’s, which consisted only of four rough boards, supported on two benches of unequal height, covered by a mattras, so thin it might have passed for a quilt, and full of knots so hard as to be mistaken for pebble stones, had not the wool appeared through divers openings; with a couple of sheets made of bull’s hide, and a blanket so bare, that you might have counted every thread, without losing one of the reckoning.

In this wretched bed, Don Quixote having laid himself down, was anointed from head to foot by the good woman and her daughter, while Maritornes (that was the Asturian’s name) stood hard by holding a light. The landlady, in the course of her application, perceiving the knight’s whole body black and blue, observed that those marks seemed rather the effects of drubbing than of a fall; but Sancho affirmed she was mistaken, and that the marks in question were occasioned by the knobs and corners of the rocks among which he fell. ‘And now I think of it,’ said he, ‘pray, Madam, manage matters so as to leave a little of your ointment, for it will be needed, I’ll assure you; my own loins are none of the soundest at present.’—‘What, did you fall too?’ said she. ‘I can’t say I did,’ answered the squire, ‘but I was so infected by seeing my master tumble, that my whole body aches as much as if I had been cudgelled without mercy.’—‘That may very easily happen,’ cried the daughter: ‘I myself have often dreamed that I was falling from a high tower, without ever coming to the ground; and, upon waking, have found myself bruised and battered, as if I had actually got a great fall.’—‘Ah, mistress!’ replied the squire, ‘here is the point; I, without dreaming at all, but on the contrary, being as broad awake as I am this precious minute, found almost as many marks upon my own shoulders, as you have observed upon those of my master Don Quixote.’—‘What is the name of that knight?’ said the Asturian. ‘Don Quixote de La Mancha,’ answered the squire: ‘he is a knight-adventurer, and one of the greatest and most valiant that have been seen in this world for many ages.’—‘And what is a knight-adventurer?’ resumed the wench. ‘Are you such a suckling as not to know that?’ cried Sancho; ‘well, I’ll tell you, mistress of mine, a knight-adventurer is a thing, that before you count a couple, may be kicked and be crowned: to-day he is the most despicable and beggarly wretch upon earth, and to-morrow he will have a brace of kingdoms to bestow upon his squires.’—‘Methinks,’ said the landlady, ‘seeing you appertain to such a great man, you ought to be a count at least.’—‘All in good time,’ replied Sancho; ‘we have not been out a month in search of adventures, and have found none worth naming; besides, people sometimes go in quest of one thing, and meet with another: indeed, if my master Don Quixote gets well of this drubbing——fall, I mean, and I myself escape without being crippled, I won’t barter my hopes for the best lordship in Spain.’

The knight having listened attentively to this whole conversation, sat up in his bed as well as he could, and taking his landlady by the hand, ‘Believe me, beautiful lady,’ said he, ‘you may account yourself extremely happy in having within your castle my person as your guest; such a guest, that if I praise him not, it is on account of the common saying, that self-commendation is in effect self-dispraise. My squire, however, will intimate who I am; while I content myself with assuring you, that I will, to all eternity, preserve engraven upon the tables of my memory the benevolence you this day vouchsafed unto me, that I may be grateful for the favour, as long as life shall remain. And, oh! that it pleased you, Heaven supreme, that love had not so vanquished and enslaved my heart to the triumphant eyes of the beautiful ingrate whom I now mention between my teeth, but that the charms of this amiable young lady could be the authors of my freedom.’

The good woman, her daughter, and the gentle Maritornes, were astonished at this rhapsody, which they understood as much as if it had been delivered in Greek; though they could easily comprehend, that the whole of it tended to compliment and proffers of service: as they were therefore altogether unaccustomed to such language, they gazed at him with admiration, as a person of a different species from other men; and having thanked him for his courtesy, in their tapster phrase, left him to his repose; while the Asturian Maritornes administered to Sancho, who had as much need of assistance as his master.

She and the carrier had made an assignation to divert themselves that night; nay, she had given her word that as soon as the company should be quiet, and her master and mistress asleep, she would visit him in the dark, and give him all the satisfaction he desired; and indeed it is recorded, for the honour of this good creature, that she never failed to perform her promises of that kind punctually, although they had been made in the midst of a heath, and out of the hearing of all evidence: for she valued herself much upon her gentility, and did not look upon it as any affront to be servant at an inn, because, she observed, disappointments and misfortunes had reduced her to that condition.

The bed of Don Quixote, which we have described so hard, so narrow, crazy, and uncomfortable, stood foremost, and exactly in the middle of this ruinous hay-loft; hard by had Sancho taken up his quarters upon a rush-mat, covered with a rug, which seemed to be manufactured of hemp, rather than wool; and last of all was the carrier’s couch, composed, as we have already said, of the pannels and furniture of his two best mules; for he had no less than twelve plump, sleek, and notable beasts, being one of the richest carriers in Arevalo, according to the report of the author of this history, who makes particular mention of him, and says he knew him perfectly well; nay, some go so far as to affirm, that he was his distant relation: be this as it will, Cid Hamet Benengeli was a most curious historian, and punctual to admiration, as appears from what hath been related, which, though in itself mean and trivial, he would by no means pass over in silence. This ought to serve as an example to those important and weighty historians, who recount events so succinctly and superficially, that the reader can scarce get a smack of them; while the most substantial circumstances are left, as it were, in the ink-horn, through carelessness, ignorance, and malice. A thousand times blessed be the authors of Tablante and Ricamonte, and he that compiled that other book, in which are recounted the atchievements of Count Tomillas! How punctually have they described the most minute particular!—But, to return to our story.

The carrier having visited his cattle, and given them their night’s allowance, stretched himself upon his pannels, in expectation of the most faithful Maritornes; while Sancho, plaistered all over, and huddled up in his kennel, endeavoured with all his might to sleep; but the aching of his ribs would by no means allow him to enjoy that satisfaction; and Don Quixote, for the same uncomfortable reason, lay like a hare, with his eyes wide open. A profound silence reigned throughout the whole house, in which there was no other light than a lamp stuck up in the passage; and this wonderful quiet, together with those reflections which always occurred to our knight, relating to the events continually recorded in the books of chivalry, that first disordered his understanding; I say, those reflections suggested to his fancy one of the strangest whims that ever entered a man’s imagination. This was no other than a full persuasion that he was arrived at some famous castle; for, as we have before observed, all the inns he lodged at seemed castles to him; and that the landlord’s daughter was the governor’s only child, who, captivated by his genteel appearance, was become deeply enamoured of him, and had actually promised to come, without the knowledge of her parents, and pass the best part of the night in bed with him. Believing, therefore, this chimera (which was the work of his own brain) to be a firm and undoubted fact, he began to reflect with extreme anxiety upon the dangerous dilemma into which his virtue was like to be drawn; and resolved in his heart to commit no treason against his mistress Dulcinea del Toboso; even though Queen Ginebra herself, and the lady Quintaniona, should make him a tender of their favours.

While his mind was engrossed by these extravagant fancies, the hour of assignation arrived, and an unlucky hour it was for him, when the kind Asturian, barefoot and in her smock, having her hair tucked up under a fustian nightcap, entered the apartment in which the three guests were lodged, and with silence and caution directed her steps towards the nest of her beloved carrier. But scarce had she got within the door, when her approach was perceived by our knight, who sitting up in his bed, in spite of his plaisters and the aching of his ribs, stretched forth his arms to receive this beautiful young lady, who, on her part, holding in her breath, moved softly on her tiptoes, groping her way with her hands before her.

While she thus crept along, in quest of her lover, she chanced to come within arm’s-length of Don Quixote, who laid fast hold of her by the wrist, and without her daring to speak a syllable, pulled her towards him, and made her sit down upon the bed; he then felt her smock, which, though made of the coarsest canvas, to him seemed a shift of the finest and softest lawn; the string of glass beads she wore about her wrist, in his apprehension out-shone the brightest oriental pearl: her hair, which bore some resemblance to a horse’s mane, he mistook for threads of pure Arabian gold, that even eclipsed the splendor of the sun; and her breath, which doubtless smelt strong of broken meat and garlick, his fancy converted into an aromatick flavour, proceeding from her delicate mouth: in short, his imagination represented her in the same form and situation with that of a certain princess, recorded in one of his books, who came to visit a wounded knight of whom she was enamoured; with all the other embellishments there described. Nay, such was the infatuation of this poor gentleman, that he was not to be undeceived, either by the touch, the breath, or any other circumstance of this honest wench, though they were powerful enough to discompose the stomach of anybody but a rampant carrier.

But our knight believed he folded in his arms the goddess of beauty, straining her in his embrace, began to pronounce, in a soft and amorous tone, ‘Would to Heaven! I were so circumstanced, beautiful and high-born lady! as to be able to pay the transcendent favour bestowed upon me, in the contemplation of your amazing charms; but it hath pleased fortune, that never ceases to persecute the virtuous, to lay me upon this bed, so bruised and battered, that even if it was my desire to gratify yours, I should find it utterly impossible; how much more so, when that impossibility is linked to another still greater? I mean the plighted faith I have vowed to the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso, the sole mistress of my most hidden thoughts: did not that consideration interpose, I should not be such a simple knight, as to let slip this happy occasion which your benevolence hath tendered to my choice.’

Maritornes, sweating with vexation to find herself thus pinioned, as it were, by the knight, whose discourse she neither heeded nor understood; endeavoured, without answering a syllable, to disengage herself from his embrace: while the honest carrier, whose lewd desires kept him awake, and made him perceive his doxy from the moment she entered, listened attentively to every thing that Don Quixote said; and being jealous that the Asturian had broke her promise to him, in order to keep it with another, crept nearer the bed of his rival, to wait the issue of this rhapsody, the meaning of which he could not comprehend; observing, however, that the wench struggled to get loose, and that the knight endeavoured to detain her, he could not relish the joke, but lifting his arm on high, discharged such a terrible blow on the lanthorn jaws of the enamoured Don, as bathed his whole countenance in blood; and not satisfied with this application, jumped upon his ribs, and travelled over his whole carcase, at a pace somewhat exceeding that of a brisk trot, until the bed, which was none of the strongest, either in materials or foundation, unable to sustain the additional weight, sunk to the ground with both; and made such a hideous noise in its fall, as waked the inn-keeper, who immediately concluded that Maritornes was concerned in the adventure, because she made no answer when he called.

On this supposition he arose, and lighting a candle, went directly to the place where he had heard the scuffle: meanwhile, the poor wench, confused and affrighted at the approach of her master, who was a fellow of a most savage disposition, retreated to the kennel of Sancho Panza, who slept in spite of all this din, and nestling in beside him, wound herself up like a ball, and lay snug. The landlord now entered the apartment, and crying with a loud voice, ‘Where have you got, strumpet? to be sure these must be your jade’s tricks, with a vengeance!’ Sancho started, and feeling a prodigious weight upon him, thought he was labouring under the night-mare, and beginning to lay about him on all sides, chanced, in course of his efforts, to bestow divers cuffs on Maritornes, who feeling herself thus belaboured, forgot the care of her reputation, and returned the squire’s compliments so heartily, that sleep forsook him whether he would or not: without knowing the person who treated him so roughly, he raised himself up, as well as he could, and going to loggerheads with Maritornes, a most furious and diverting skirmish ensued.

By this time, the carrier perceiving by the light the situation of his mistress, ran to her assistance; and the landlord followed the same course, though with a very different intention, namely, to chastise the maid; being fully persuaded, that she was the sole cause of all this uproar; and so, as the saying is, the cat to the rat, the rat to the rope, the rope to the gallows. The carrier drummed upon Sancho, Sancho struck at the maid, the maid pummelled him, the innkeeper disciplined her; all of them exerting themselves with such eagerness, that there was not one moment’s pause. But, to crown the joke, the landlord’s candle went out, and the combatants being left in the dark, such a circulation of blows ensued, that wheresoever the fist fell, there the patient was disabled.

There chanced to lodge at the inn that night, a trooper belonging to the ancient holy brotherhood of Toledo, who also hearing the strange noise of this fray, arose, and seizing his tipstaff, together with the tin-box that contained his commission, entered the apartment in the dark, calling aloud—‘Keep the peace, in the king’s name; keep the peace, in the name of the holy brotherhood.’ The first he encountered was the forlorn Don Quixote, who lay insensible on his demolished bed, with his face uppermost; so that groping about, he happened to lay hold of his beard, and cried—‘Assist, I charge you, the officers of justice:’ but perceiving that the person he held neither stirred nor spoke, he concluded that he must be dead, and that the people within were the assassins. In this persuasion he raised his voice, crying—‘Shut the gates of the inn, that none may escape; for here is a man murdered.’ This exclamation, which astonished them all, was no sooner heard, than every one quitted his share in the battle; the landlord retreated to his own chamber, the carrier sneaked to his panniers, and the damsel to her straw: while the unfortunate knight and squire were left on the spot, unable to move from the places where they lay. The trooper letting go the beard of Don Quixote, went out for a light to search for and apprehend the delinquents; but in this design he was disappointed; the landlord having purposely extinguished the lamp when he retired to his apartment; so that he was obliged to have recourse to the embers, at which, with great industry and time, he made shift to light another candle.

CHAP. III. CONTAINING THE SEQUEL OF THOSE INCREDIBLE GRIEVANCES WHICH THE VALIANT DON QUIXOTE, AND HIS TRUSTY SQUIRE SANCHO PANZA, UNDERWENT AT THE INN, WHICH FOR THEIR MISFORTUNE THE KNIGHT MISTOOK FOR A CASTLE.

About this time, Don Quixote recovering the use of his tongue, began to call in the same feeble tone with which he spoke the preceding day, when he lay stretched in the pack-staff valley—‘Art thou asleep, friend Sancho? friend Sancho, art thou asleep?’—‘God’s my life!’ replied Sancho, full of peevishness and pain, ‘how should I be asleep, seeing all the devils in hell have been upon me this whole night?’—‘That thou mayest assure thyself of,’ answered the knight: ‘for either I understand nothing at all, or this castle is inchanted. Thou must know, Sancho, (but what I am going to disclose to thee, thou shalt swear to keep secret till after my death.)’—‘I do swear,’ said Sancho. ‘This secrecy I insist upon,’ replied his master, ‘because I would by no means take away the reputation of any person.’—‘Well then,’ cried the squire, ‘I swear to keep it secret till the days of your worship be past and gone; and God grant that I may be at liberty to reveal it to-morrow.’—‘Have I done you so much mischief, Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, ‘that you wish to see me dead so soon?’—‘It is not for that,’ replied the squire, ‘but because I am an enemy to all secrets, and would not have any thing rot in my keeping.’—‘Be that as it may,’ said the knight, ‘I will trust greater things to thy love and fidelity. Know, therefore, that this very night I have been engaged in a most rare and wonderful adventure; which, that I may briefly relate, take notice, that a little while ago, I was visited by the constable’s daughter, than whom a more beautiful and gracious young lady is scarce to be found on this terraqueous globe. How shall I paint to thee the comeliness of her person? how delineate the acuteness of her understanding? or, how shall I describe those mysterious charms which, that I may preserve the fealty I have sworn to my own sovereign mistress Dulcinea del Toboso, I must pass over in sacred silence? I shall only tell thee, that Heaven itself was jealous of the happiness which fortune had put into my power; or, perhaps, which is more probable, this castle, as I have already observed, is inchanted: for, while I was engaged with her in a most delightful and amorous conversation, an unseen hand, belonging, doubtless, to the arm of some monstrous giant, descended, I know not whence, upon my jaws, leaving my whole face bathed in gore; and afterwards bruised me in such a manner, that I am infinitely worse than I was yesterday, when the carriers maltreated us, as thou knowest, for the excesses of Rozinante; from whence I conjecture, that the treasure of this fair damsel’s beauty is guarded by some inchanted Moor, and not destined for my possession.’—‘Nor for mine neither,’ cried Sancho; ‘for I have been drubbed by five hundred Moors, so unmercifully, that the pack-stave threshing was but cakes and gingerbread to what I now feel: so that I see no great cause you have to brag of that rare adventure, which has left us in this comfortable pickle. Indeed, your worship was not so badly off, because you had that same incomparable beauty in your arms; but what had I, except the hardest knocks, which, I hope, I shall ever feel in my born days? Cursed am I, and the mother that bore me; for though I neither am knight errant, nor ever design to be one, the greatest part of the mischief that betides us for ever falls to my share.’—‘It seems, then, thou hast suffered too,’ said Don Quixote. ‘Woe be unto me and my whole pedigree!’ cried Sancho; ‘have I not been telling you so all this time?’—‘Give thyself no concern about that matter,’ answered the knight; ‘for now I am determined to prepare that precious balsam, which will cure us both in the twinkling of an eye.’

About this time the officer of the holy brotherhood, having made shift to light his candle, came back to examine the person whom he supposed murdered; and Sancho, seeing him approach in his shirt and woollen night-cap, with a very unfavourable aspect, and a light in his hand, said to his master, ‘Pray, Sir, is this the inchanted Moor returned to spend the last drop of his vengeance upon us[57]?’—‘That cannot be the Moor,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘for inchanters never suffer themselves to be seen.’—‘If they won’t allow themselves to be seen,’ cried the squire, ‘they make no bones of letting themselves be felt; that my shoulders can testify.’—‘And mine too,’ said the knight; ‘but we have no sufficient reason to believe that he whom we now see is the inchanted Moor.’

Meanwhile, the trooper drawing near, and hearing them talk so deliberately, remained some time in suspence; then observing Don Quixote, who still lay on his back, unable to stir, on account of his bruises and plaisters, he went up to him, saying, ‘How do’st do, honest friend?’—‘I would speak more submissively,’ answered the knight, ‘were I such a plebeian as you. Is that the language used in this country to knights-errant, you blockhead?’ The officer finding himself treated with so little ceremony, by such a miserable wight, could not bear the reproach, but lifting up his lamp, oil and all, discharged it upon Don Quixote’s pate, which suffered greatly in the encounter; and the light being again extinguished, slipped away in the dark. Things being in this situation, ‘Sir,’ said Sancho Panza, ‘without doubt, that was the inchanted Moor, who keeps the treasure for other people, and the fisty-cuffs and lamp-leavings for us.’—‘It must be so,’ replied the knight; ‘but we must not mind those affairs of inchantment so much, as to let them ruffle or inflame us; because, they being invisible and fantastical, do what we can we shall never be able to take vengeance upon the authors of them: get up, therefore, Sancho, if thou canst, and desire the constable of this castle to supply me with some oil, wine, salt, and rosemary; that I may prepare the salutiferous balsam, which, really, I believe, I stand in great need of at present, for the wound which the phantom hath given me bleeds apace.’

Accordingly the squire made shift to rise, notwithstanding the intolerable aching of his bones; and creeping in the dark towards the innkeeper’s bed-chamber, happened to meet with the trooper, who stood listening, to know the intention of his adversary. ‘Signior,’ cried he, ‘whosoever you are, do us the benefit and favour to assist us with some rosemary, salt, wine, and oil; in order to cure one of the most mighty knights errant upon earth, who lies in that bed, desperately wounded by the hands of an inchanted Moor that frequents this inn.’ The officer, hearing such an address, concluded that the man had lost his senses; and it being by this time dawn, opened the inn-gate, and calling to the landlord, told him what this honest man wanted. The innkeeper having provided Sancho with the ingredients, he immediately carried them to his master; who lay holding his head between his two hands, and complaining very much of the effect of the lamp; which, however, had done no farther damage than that of raising a couple of large tumours upon his pate; that which he took for blood being no other than sweat forced out by the anguish and pain he had undergone. In short, he made a composition, by mixing the materials together, and boiling them a good while, until he found he had brought the whole to a due consistence: then he asked for a phial to contain the balsam; but as there was none in the house, he resolved to cork it up in a tin oil-flask, of which the landlord made him a present. Which being done, he repeated over it more than fourscore pater-nosters, with the like number of ave-maria’s, salve’s and credo’s, accompanying every word with the sign of the cross, by way of benediction: and this whole ceremony was performed in presence of Sancho, the innkeeper, and officer; the carrier having very quietly gone to take care of his beasts.

This precious balsam being thus composed, the knight was determined to make instant trial of the efficacy with which he imagined it endued; and accordingly swallowed about a pint and a half of what remained in the pot, after the oil-flask was full; which had scarce got down his throat, when he began to vomit in such a manner, as left nothing in his stomach; and a most copious sweat breaking out upon him, in consequence of the violent operation, he desired they would wrap him up warm, and leave him to his repose. They complied with his request, and he fell into a profound sleep that lasted three hours; at the end of which awaking, he found himself exceedingly refreshed, and so well recovered of his bruises, that he seemed perfectly well; and implicitly believed that he had now made sure of the balsam of Fierabras; which, while he possessed, he might, with the utmost confidence and safety, engage in the most perilous quarrels, combats, and havock, that could possibly happen.

Sancho Panza seeing his master recovered to a miracle, begged he would bestow upon him the sediment of the pot, which was no small quantity: and his request being granted, he laid hold of it with both hands, and setting it to his head, drank off, with strong faith and eager inclination, almost as much as his master had swallowed before. But the poor squire’s stomach chanced to be not quite so delicate as that of the knight; and therefore, before he could discharge a drop, he suffered such pangs and reachings, such qualms and cold sweats, that he verily believed his last hour was come; and in the midst of his wamblings and affliction cursed the balsam and the miscreant that made it. Don Quixote perceiving his situation, said, ‘I believe that all this mischief happens to thee, Sancho, because thou art not a knight; for I am persuaded, that this liquor will be of service to none but such as are of the order of knighthood.’—‘If your worship knew so much,’ cried Sancho, ‘woe be unto me and my whole generation! why did you allow me to taste it?’ At this instant the potion began to operate, and the poor squire to unload at both ends with such fury, that the mat upon which he had thrown himself, and the sheet that covered him, were soon in a woeful pickle: he sweated and shivered with such violent motions and fits, that not only he himself, but every body present, thought he would have given up the ghost.

This tempest of evacuation lasted near two hours; at the expiration of which, he found himself far from being relieved like his master, but, on the contrary, so much fatigued that he was not able to stand. The knight, as we have already observed, finding himself in good health and excellent spirits, longed fervently to depart in quest of adventures, thinking every minute he spent in that place was an injury to the world in general, and to those miserable objects who wanted his favour and protection; especially as he was now in possession of the certain means of safety and confidence, in that efficacious balsam he had made. Prompted by these suggestions, he himself saddled Rozinante, and with his own hands put the pannel upon the beast of the squire, whom he also assisted in getting on his cloaths, and mounting his ass. He then bestrode his own steed; and laying hold of a pitchfork that stood in the corner of the yard, appropriated it to the use of a lance; while all the people in the house, exceeding twenty persons, beheld him with admiration: the landlord’s daughter being among the spectators, he fixed his eyes upon her, and from time to time uttered a profound sigh, which seemed to be heaved from the very bottom of his bowels; and which, in the opinion of all those who had seen him anointed over night, was occasioned by the aching of his bones.

He and his squire being by this time mounted, he halted at the gate, and calling to the innkeeper, pronounced, in a grave and solemn tone, ‘Numerous and mighty are the favours, Sir Constable, which I have received in this castle of yours; and I shall think myself under the highest obligation to retain a grateful remembrance of your courtesy all the days of my life. If I can make you any return, in taking vengeance on some insolent adversary, who hath, perhaps, aggrieved you; know, that it is my province and profession to assist the helpless, avenge the injured, and chastise the false: recollect, therefore; and if you have any boon of that sort to ask, speak the word; I promise, by the order of knighthood which I have received, that you shall be righted and redressed to your heart’s content.’—‘Sir knight,’ replied the innkeeper, with the same deliberation, ‘I have no occasion for your worship’s assistance, to redress any grievance of mine; for I know how to revenge my own wrongs when I suffer any: all I desire is, that you will pay the score you have run up in this inn, for provender to your cattle, and food and lodging to yourself and servant.’—‘It seems, then, this is an inn,’ answered the knight. ‘Aye, and a well-respected one,’ said the landlord. ‘I have been in a mistake all this time,’ resumed Don Quixote, ‘for I really thought it was a castle; and that none of the meanest neither: but since it is no other than a house of publick entertainment, you have nothing to do but excuse me from paying a farthing; for I can by no means transgress the custom of knights-errant, who, I am sure, as having read nothing to the contrary[58], never paid for lodging nor any thing else, in any inn or house whatsoever, because they had a right and title to the best of entertainment, in recompence for the intolerable sufferings they underwent, in seeking adventures by night and by day, in winter as well as summer, on foot and on horseback, exposed to hunger and thirst, to heat and cold, and to all the inclemencies of heaven, as well as the inconveniencies of earth.’—‘All this is nothing to my purpose,’ said the innkeeper; ‘pay me what you owe, and save all your idle tales of knight-errantry for those who will be amused with them; for my own part, I mind no tale but that of the money I take.’—‘You are a saucy publican, and a blockhead to boot,’ cried Don Quixote; who, putting spurs to Rozinante, and brandishing his pitchfork, sallied out of the inn without opposition; and was a good way off before he looked behind to see if he was followed by his squire.

The landlord, seeing the knight depart without paying, ran up to seize Sancho; who told him, that since his master had refused to discharge the bill, he must not expect any money from him, who being the squire of a knight-errant, was, as well as his master, bound by the same laws to pay for nothing in taverns and inns. The publican, irritated at this answer, threatened, if he would not pay him, to indemnify himself in a manner that should not be so much to the squire’s liking: but Panza swore by the laws of chivalry his master professed, that he would not pay a doit, though it should cost him his life; for he was resolved that the honourable and ancient customs of knight-errantry should not be lost through his misbehaviour; neither should those squires, who were to come into the world after him, have occasion to complain of his conduct, or reproach him with the breach of so just a privilege.

[Illustration: Sancho Being Tossed.]

As the unfortunate Sancho’s evil genius would have it, there were among the company that lodged that night in the house, four clothiers of Segovia, three pin-makers from the great square of Cordova, and a couple of shopkeepers from the market-place of Seville; all of them brisk jolly fellows, and mischievous wags. These companions, as if they had been inspired and instigated by the same spirit, came up to the squire, and pulled him from his ass; then, one of them fetching a blanket from the landlord’s bed, they put Sancho into it, and lifting up their eyes, perceived the roof was too low for their purpose; therefore determined to carry him out into the yard, which had no other ceiling than the sky: there placing Panza in the middle of the blanket, they began to toss him on high, and divert themselves with his capers, as the mob do with dogs at Shrove-tide. The cries uttered by this miserable vaulter, were so piercing as to reach the ears of his master, who halting to listen the more attentively, believed that some new adventure was approaching, until he clearly recognized the shrieks of his squire: he immediately turned his horse, and with infinite straining, made shift to gallop back to the inn; but finding the gate shut, rode round in search of some other entrance; and when he approached the yard-wall, which was not very high, perceived the disagreeable joke they were practising upon his squire, who rose in the air, and sunk again with such grace and celerity, that if his indignation would have allowed him, I verily believe the knight himself would have laughed at the occasion. He attempted to step from his horse upon the wall, but was so bruised and battered, that he could not move from his seat; and therefore, situated as he was, began to vent such a torrent of reproachful and opprobrious language against Sancho’s executioners, that it is impossible to repeat the half of what he said. This, however, neither interrupted their mirth nor their diversion, nor gave the least truce to the lamentations of Sancho, who prayed and threatened by turns, as he flew. Indeed, nothing of this sort either could or did avail him, until leaving off, out of pure weariness, they thought fit to wrap him up in his great coat, and set him on his ass again. The compassionate Maritornes seeing him so much fatigued, thought he would be the better for a draught of water, which, that it might be the cooler, she fetched from the well; and Sancho had just put the mug to his lips, when his draught was retarded by the voice of his master, who cried aloud, ‘Son Sancho, drink not water, drink not that which will be the occasion of thy death, my son; behold this most sacred balsam,’ holding up the cruse of potion in his hand, ‘two drops of which will effectually cure thee.’ At these words the squire eyed him, as it were, askance, and in a tone still more vociferous, replied, ‘Perchance your worship has forgot that I am no knight; or may be, you want to see me vomit up all the entrails I have left, after last night’s quandary. Keep your liquor for yourself, and may all the devils in hell give you joy of it; and leave me to my own discretion!’ He had no sooner pronounced these words than he began to swallow; and perceiving at the first draught, that the cordial was no other than water, he did not chuse to repeat it; but desired Maritornes to bring him some wine. This request she complied with very chearfully, and paid for it with her own money; for it was reported of her, that although she was reduced to that low degree in life, she actually retained some faint sketches and shadows of the Christian.

Sancho having finished his draught, clapped heels to his ass, and the inn-gate being thrown wide open, sallied forth very well satisfied with having got off without paying any thing, although he had succeeded at the expence of his shoulders, which were indeed his usual sureties. True it is, the landlord had detained his bags for the reckoning; but these Sancho did not miss in the confusion of his retreat. As soon as he was clear of the house, the innkeeper would have barricadoed the gate, had he not been prevented by the blanket companions, who were of that sort of people, who would not have valued Don Quixote a farthing, even if he had been actually one of the knights of the round-table.

Footnote 57:

Literally, what is left in the bottom of his inkhorn.

Footnote 58:

Don Quixote seems in this place to have forgot one adventure of his great pattern, Orlando, who, while he accompanied Angelica in her flight from Albracca, happened to intrude upon the king of the Lestrigons as he sat at dinner in a valley; and being in great want of victuals, accosted his most savage majesty in these words, recorded by Boyardo, or rather Berni, in his poem intitled Orlando Innamorato.

_Poichè fortuna a quest’ora ne mena_ _Da voi, vi prego, che non vi despiaccia,_ _O pe nostri danari o in cortesia,_ _Che noi cenium con voi di compagnia._

Thus humbly requesting, that he would either for love or money give them a bone to pick.

CHAP. IV. IN WHICH IS RECOUNTED THE DISCOURSE THAT PASSED BETWEEN SANCHO PANZA AND HIS MASTER DON QUIXOTE; WITH OTHER ADVENTURES WORTHY OF RECORD.

Sancho made shift to overtake his master, so haggard and dismayed, that he was scarce able to manage his beast: and when the knight perceived his melancholy situation, ‘Honest Sancho,’ said he, ‘I am now convinced beyond all doubt, that this castle or inn is inchanted; for those who made such a barbarous pastime of thy sufferings, could be no other than phantoms and beings belonging to the other world. I am confirmed in this opinion, from having found, that while I was by the wall of the yard, a spectator of the acts of thy mournful tragedy, I could neither climb over to thy assistance, nor indeed move from Rozinante, but was fixed in the saddle by the power of inchantment; for I swear to thee, by the faith of my character! if I could have alighted from my steed, and surmounted the wall, I would have revenged thy wrongs in such a manner, that those idle miscreants should have remembered the jest to their dying day: although I know, that in so doing, I should have transgressed the laws of chivalry, which, I have often told thee, do not allow a knight to lift his arm against any person of an inferior degree, except in defence of his own life and limbs, or in cases of the most pressing necessity.’—‘So would I have revenged myself,’ said Sancho, ‘knighted or not knighted; but it was not in my power; though I am very well satisfied that those who diverted themselves at my cost were no phantoms, nor inchanted beings, as your worship imagines, but men made of flesh and bones, as we are, and all of them have Christian names, which I heard repeated, while they tossed me in the blanket; one, for example, is called Pedro Martinez, another Tenorio Harnandez, and the innkeeper goes by the name of Juan Palameque the left-handed; and therefore, Signior, your being disabled from alighting and getting over the wall, must have been owing to something else than inchantment. What I can clearly discern from the whole is, that these adventures we go in search of, will, at the long run, bring us into such misventures, that we shall not know our right hands from our left; and therefore, in my small judgment, the best and wholesomest thing we can do, will be to jog back again to our own habitation now, while the harvest is going on, to take care of our crops, and leave off sauntering from post to pillar[59], and falling out of the frying-pan into the fire, as the saying is.’

‘How little art thou acquainted, Sancho,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘with the pretensions of chivalry! hold thy tongue and have patience; for the day will soon arrive on which thy own eyes shall judge what an honourable profession it is: pray, tell me, now, what greater satisfaction can there be in this world, or what pleasure can equal that of a conqueror, who triumphs over his adversary in battle? None, sure!’—‘That may be,’ answered the squire, ‘though I know nothing of the matter. This only I know, that since we have taken up the trade of knights-errant, your worship I mean, for as to my own part I have no manner of title to be reckoned in such an honourable list, we have not gained one battle, except that with the Biscayan; and even there your worship came off with half an ear, and the loss of one side of your helmet: from that day to this good hour, our lot hath been nothing but cudgelling upon cudgelling, pummelling upon pummelling; except the advantage I have had over your worship, in being tossed in a blanket by inchanted Moors, whom I cannot be revenged of, in order to know how pleasant a pastime it is to overcome one’s enemy, as your worship observes.’—‘That is the very grievance, Sancho, under which both you and I labour,’ said Don Quixote: ‘but, for the future, I will endeavour to procure a sword tempered with such masterly skill, that he who wears it shall be subject to no kind of inchantment; and who knows but accident may furnish me with that which Amadis possessed, when he stiled himself the knight of the flaming sword; and truly it was one of the most excellent blades that ever a warrior unsheathed; for, besides that sovereign virtue it contained, it cut keen as a razor, and no armour, though ever so strong or inchanted, could stand before its edge.’—‘I am so devilishly lucky,’ said Sancho, ‘that if the case was really so, and your worship should light on that same sword, it would, like the precious balsam, be of no service or security to any but your true knights; and we that are squires might sing for sorrow.’—‘Thou must not be afraid of that,’ replied the knight; ‘Heaven will surely deal more mercifully with thee.’

In such conversation, Don Quixote and his squire jogged along, when the former descrying on the road in which they travelled, a large and thick cloud of dust rolling towards them, turned to Sancho, saying, ‘This, O Sancho, is the day that shall manifest the great things which fortune hath in store for me! This, I say, is the day on which the valour of this arm shall be displayed as much as upon any other occasion; and on which I am resolved to perform deeds that shall remain engraven on the leaves of fame to all posterity! Seest thou that cloud of dust before us? The whole of it is raised by a vast army, composed of various and innumerable nations that are marching this way.’—‘By that way of reckoning, there must be two,’ said Sancho, ‘for right over against it there is just such another.’ Don Quixote immediately turned his eyes, and perceiving Sancho’s information to be true, was rejoiced beyond measure; firmly believing that what he saw were two armies in full march to attack each other, and engage in the middle of that spacious plain; for every hour and minute of the day his imagination was engrossed by those battles, inchantments, dreadful accidents, extravagant amours, and rhodomontades, which are recorded in books of chivalry; and indeed every thing he thought, said, or did, had a tendency that way.

As for the dust he now saw, it was raised by two flocks of sheep which chanced to be driven from different parts into the same road, and were so much involved in this cloud of their own making, that it was impossible to discern them until they were very near. The knight affirmed they were armies with such assurance, that Sancho actually believed it, and said to his master, ‘And pray now, good your worship, what must we do?’—‘What,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘but assist and support that side which is weak and discomfited? Thou must know, Sancho, that yonder host which fronts us, is led and commanded by the mighty Emperor Alifanfaron, sovereign of the great island of Trapoban; and that other behind us belongs to his mortal enemy the king of the Garamanteans, known by the name Pentapolin with the naked arm, because he always goes to battle with the sleeve of his right-arm tucked up.’—‘But why are those chieftains so mischievously inclined towards each other?’ said Sancho. ‘The cause of their enmity,’ replied the knight, ‘is this: Alifanfaron, who is a most outrageous Pagan, is enamoured of Pentapolin’s daughter, a most beautiful and courteous lady, who being a Christian, her father will by no means betroth her to the infidel prince, unless he shall first renounce the law of his false prophet Mahomet, and become a convert to the true faith.’—‘Now, by my whiskers!’ cried Sancho, ‘King Pentapolin is an honest man, and I am resolved to give him all the assistance in my power.’—‘In so doing thou wilt perform thy duty, Sancho,’ said his master; ‘for to engage in such battles as these, it is not necessary to be dubbed a knight.’—‘That I can easily comprehend,’ replied the other; ‘but where shall we secure the ass, that we may be sure of finding him after the fray is over; for I believe it is not the fashion now-a-days, to go to battle on such a beast.’—‘True,’ said the knight, ‘and I think the best way will be to leave him to his chance, whether he be lost or not; for we shall have such choice of steeds, when once we have gained the victory, that Rozinante himself will run some risk of being exchanged for another: but observe and listen attentively; I will now give thee a detail of the principal knights that serve in these two armies; and that thou may’st see and mark them the better, let us retire to yon rising ground, from whence we can distinctly view the line of battle in both.’ They accordingly placed themselves upon a hillock, whence they could easily have discerned the two flocks of sheep which Don Quixote metamorphosed into armies, had not the dust they raised confounded and obscured the view; but nevertheless, beholding in his imagination that which could not otherwise be seen, because it did not exist, he began to pronounce with an audible voice—

‘That knight whom thou seest with yellow armour, bearing in his shield a lion crowned and crouching at the feet of a young lady, is the gallant Laucalco, lord of the silver bridge; that other beside him, who wears armour powdered with flowers of gold, and bears for his device three crowns argent in a field azure, is the amorous Micocolembo, Grand Duke of Quiracia; and he upon his right-hand, with those gigantick limbs, is the never to be daunted Brandabarbaran de Boliche, sovereign of the three Arabias, who comes armed with a serpent’s skin, and, instead of a shield, brandishes a huge gate, which, it is said, belonged to the temple that Samson overthrew, when he avenged himself of his enemies at his death; but turn thine eyes, and behold in the front of this other army, the ever-conquering and never-conquered Timonel de Carcajona, prince of New-Biscay, whose arms are quartered azure, vert, argent, and or; and the device in his shield, a cat or, in a field gules, with the letters Miau, which constitute the beginning of his lady’s name; and she, they say, is the peerless Miaulina, daughter of Alfeniquen, Duke of Algarve; the other who loads and oppresses the loins of that fiery Arabian steed, with armour white as snow, and a shield without a device, is a noviciate knight of the French nation, called Pierre Papin, Baron of Utrique; the third, who strikes his iron rowels into the flanks of that spotted nimble zebra[60], is the potent Duke of Nerbia, esparta-filardo of the wood, who bears in his shield for a device, a bunch of asparagus, with an inscription signifying, “By destiny I am dogged.”’

In this manner did he invent names for a great many knights in either army, to all of whom also he gave arms, colours, mottos, and devices, without the least hesitation, being incredibly inspired by the fumes of a distempered fancy; nay, he proceeded without any pause, saying, ‘That squadron forming in our front is composed of people of divers nations: there be those who drink the delicious waters of the celebrated Xanthus, with the mountaineers who tread the Masilican plains: and those who sift the purest golden ore of Arabia Felix; there also may be seen the people who sport upon the cool and famous banks of the translucent Thermodonte; and those who conduct the yellow Pactolus in many a winding stream; the promise-breaking Numidians; the Persians for their archery renowned; the Parthians and the Medes who combat as they fly; the Arabians famed for shifting habitations; the Scythians cruel as they are fair; the thick-lipped race of Ethiopia; and an infinite variety of other nations, whose looks I know, and can discern, though I cannot recollect their names. In that other squadron march those men who lave in the crystal current of the olive-bearing Betis; those whose visages are cleaned and polished with the limpid wave of the ever rich and golden Tagus; those who delight in the salutiferous draughts of Genil the divine; those who scour the Tartesian fields that with fat pasture teem; those who make merry in the Elysian meads of Herezan; the rich Manchegans crowned with ruddy ears of corn; those cloathed in steel the bold remains of ancient Gothick blood; those who bathe in Pisuerga, famous for its gentle current; those who feed their flocks upon the spacious meads of the meandring Guadiana, celebrated for its secret course; those who shiver with the chill blasts of the woody Pyrenees; and those who feel the snowy flakes of lofty Appenine: in fine, whatever nation Europe imbosoms and contains.’

Heaven preserve us! what provinces did he mention! what nations did he name! bestowing, with wonderful facility, those attributes that belonged to each; being all the while absorpt, and, as it were, immersed in the contents of his deceitful books. Sancho Panza listened attentively to his master, without uttering one syllable; and from time to time turned his eyes from one side to another to see if he could discern those knights and giants who were thus described: but not being able to discover one of them, ‘Sir,’ said he, ‘your worship may say what you please, but the devil a man, giant, or knight, that you have mentioned, is there; at least I can see none: perhaps, indeed, the whole is inchantment, like the phantoms of last night.’—‘How say’st thou?’ replied Don Quixote, ‘dost thou not hear the neighing of steeds, the sound of clarions, and noise of drums?’—‘I hear nothing,’ answered Sancho, ‘but abundance of bleating of ewes and lambs.’ And truly that was the case; for by this time the two flocks were pretty near them. ‘Thy fear,’ said Don Quixote, ‘hinders thee from seeing and hearing aright: for one effect of terror is to disturb the senses, and make objects appear otherwise than they are; if thou art therefore under such consternation, retire on one side, and leave me alone; for I myself am sufficient to bestow victory on that cause which I espouse.’ So saying, he clapped spurs to Rozinante, and putting his lance in the rest, darted down from the hillock like lightning. In vain did Sancho bellow forth, ‘Turn, Signior Don Quixote: good your worship, turn! so help me God, those are ewes and lambs you are going to attack! Woe be to the father that begat me! Will you not turn? What madness possesses you! Consider, here are no giants, nor knights, nor cats, nor arms, nor shields quartered or whole, nor inverted azures, and the devils knows what: was there ever such distraction? sinner that I am!’

[Illustration: Don Quixote Valiantly Charging the Herd of Sheep.]

The knight, however, did not regard this exclamation: on the contrary, he rode on, bauling aloud, ‘So ho, knights! you that attend and serve under the banners of the valiant Emperor Pentapolin, with the naked arm, follow me in a body, and you shall behold how easily I will avenge him, on his adversary Alifanfaron, of Trapoban.’ Having uttered these words, he rushed into the thickest of the squadron of sheep, and began to lay about him, with as much eagerness and fury, as if he had been actually engaged with his mortal enemies. The herdsmen and shepherds who were driving the flock, called to him to forbear; but finding their admonition had no effect, they ungirded their slings, and began to salute his ears with stones, the least of which was as large as an ordinary fist; but he, far from minding their missiles, rode about the field, crying, ‘Where art thou, proud Alifanfaron? face me if thou darest; I am but a single knight, who want to prove thy prowess hand to hand, and sacrifice thy life for the injury thou hast done to Pentapolin Garamanta.’ Just as he pronounced these words, he received a pebble on his side, that seemed to have buried a couple of his ribs in his belly; and gave him such a rude shock, that he believed himself either dead or desperately wounded; then remembering his specifick, he pulled out the cruse, and setting it to his mouth, began to swallow the balsam; but before he had drank what he thought a sufficient dose, there came another such almond, so plump upon his hand and cruse, that after having shivered the pot to pieces, it carried off in its way three or four of his grinders, and shattered two of his fingers in a grievous manner: in short, so irresistible were both the applications, that the poor knight could not help tumbling from his horse. The shepherds immediately came up, and believing him actually dead, gathered together their flock with all imaginable dispatch; and taking their dead, which might be about seven in number, upon their shoulders, made off without any farther inquiry.

All this time Sancho remained upon the hill, beholding, with amazement, the madness of his master, tearing his beard, and cursing the hour and minute on which it was his fate to know him: and now seeing him fallen, and the shepherds gone, he descended to his assistance, when finding him still sensible, though in a miserable situation, ‘Did not I warn you, Signior Don Quixote,’ said he, ‘to turn; and assure you that those you went to attack were no armies, but flocks of innocent sheep?’—‘How strangely can that miscreant inchanter, who is my enemy, transmography things to thwart me? Know, Sancho, that it is a very easy matter for necromancers to make us assume what shapes they please; and the malicious wretch who persecutes me, envying the glory I should have gained in this battle, hath doubtless metamorphosed the squadrons of the foe into flocks of sheep: but thou shalt do one thing, I intreat thee, Sancho, in order to be undeceived and convinced of the truth; mount thy ass, and follow them fair and softly; and when they are at a convenient distance from hence, thou wilt see them return to their former shapes, and ceasing to be sheep, become men again, right and tight as I at first described them; but do not go at present, for I have occasion for thy service and assistance: come hither, and see how many teeth I have lost; methinks there is not one left in my whole jaw.’

Sancho accordingly approached so near as to trust his eyes into his master’s mouth, just at the time when the balsam began to operate in his stomach, which, with the force of a culverin, discharged its contents full in the beard of the compassionate squire. ‘Holy Virgin!’ cried Sancho, ‘what is this that hath befallen me? Without doubt, this poor sinner is mortally wounded, since he vomits blood.’ But considering the case more maturely, he found by the colour, taste, and smell, that it was not blood, but the balsam he had seen him drink: and such was the loathing he conceived at this recognition, that his stomach turned, and he emptied his bowels upon his master; so that both of them remained in a handsome pickle. Sancho ran to his ass, for a towel to clean them, and some application for his master’s hurt; but when he missed his bags, he had well-nigh lost his senses; he cursed his fate again, and determined with himself to leave the knight, and return to his habitation, even though he should lose his wages for the time he had already served, as well as his hopes of governing the Island of Promise.

At this juncture Don Quixote arose, and clapping his left-hand to his cheek, in order to prevent his teeth from falling out, with the right laid hold of the bridle of Rozinante; who, like a faithful and affectionate servant, had never stirred from his master’s side; and went up to the place where his squire stood, leaning upon his ass, with one hand applied to his jaw, in the posture of a person who is exceedingly pensive; the knight perceiving him in this situation, with manifest signs of melancholy in his countenance, ‘Know Sancho,’ said he, ‘that one man is no more than another, unless he can do more than another. All those hurricanes that have happened to us prognosticate that we soon shall have fair weather, and that every thing will succeed to our wish: for it is impossible that either good or bad fortune should be eternal; and therefore it follows, that our adversity having lasted so long, our prosperity must be now at hand. Be not grieved then, at the misfortunes that happen to me, since no part of them falls to thy share.’—‘Not to my share!’ answered Sancho; ‘mayhap, then, he whom they tossed in the blanket yesterday was not the son of my father; and the bags that are lost to-day, with all the goods in them, belonged to some other person.’—‘What, hast thou lost the bags, Sancho!’ cried Don Quixote. ‘Yes, sure,’ said the other. ‘At that rate, then, we have no victuals to eat?’ resumed the knight. ‘That would certainly be the case,’ answered the squire, ‘if the meadows did not furnish those herbs you say you know with which unfortunate knights like your worship are wont to make up such losses.’—‘Yes, but for all that,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘I could at present relish a luncheon of brown bread, or a loaf, with a couple of red herrings, better than all the herbs described by Dioscorides, even with the annotations of Doctor Laguna; but, nevertheless, mount thy beast, honest Sancho, and follow me. God, who provides all things, will not be wanting to us; more especially as we are employed in his immediate service: he faileth not to provide for the gnats of the air, the insects of the earth, the spawn of the sea; and is so beneficent, as to cause the sun to shine upon the good and bad, and sendeth rain to the wicked as well as the righteous.’—‘Your worship,’ said Sancho, ‘is more fit to be a preacher than a knight-errant.’—‘Knights-errant,’ replied his master, ‘ever had, and ought to have, some knowledge of every thing; nay, some there have been in times past, who would stop to make a sermon or discourse upon the highway, with as much eloquence as if they had taken their degrees at the university of Paris: from whence it maybe inferred, that the lance was never blunted by the pen, nor the quill impeded by the lance.’—‘What your worship observes may be very true,’ said Sancho; ‘but, in the mean time, let us leave this place, and endeavour to get a night’s lodging in some house or other, where, God grant there may be neither blankets nor blanketeers, nor phantoms, nor inchanted Moors; else, may the devil confound both hook and crook!’

‘Implore the protection of God, my son,’ answered the knight, ‘and lead me where thou wilt: for this once, I leave our lodging to thy care; but reach hither thy hand, and feel with thy finger how many teeth I have lost on this right side of my upper jaw, which is the place that gives me the greatest pain.’ Sancho introduced his fingers, and having carefully examined his gums. ‘How many teeth,’ said he, was your worship wont to have in this place?’—‘Four, besides the dog-tooth,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘all of them sound and whole.’—‘Consider what your worship says,’ replied Sancho. ‘I say, four, if not five,’ resumed the knight; ‘for, in all my life, I never lost tooth or fang, either by worm, rheum, or scurvy.’—‘At present,’ said the squire, ‘in that part of the lower jaw, your worship has but two grinders and a half; and above, neither half nor whole; all is smooth as the palm of my hand.’—‘Cruel fortune!’ cried Don Quixote, hearing this melancholy piece of news; ‘would they had rather demolished a limb, so it had not been the sword-arm: for I would have thee to know, Sancho, that a mouth without grinders, is like a mill without a milstone; and a tooth is worth a treasure[61]; but such mischances always attend us who profess the strict order of chivalry. Get up, friend, and lead the way, and I will follow at thy own pace.’ Sancho complied with his desire, and took the way that seemed most likely to lead to some accommodation, without quitting the high road, which was thereabouts very much frequented. While they jogged on softly, because the pain in Don Quixote’s jaws would not suffer him to be quiet, or exert himself in pushing forward, Sancho being desirous of entertaining and diverting him with his discourse, said, among other things, what will be rehearsed in the following chapter.

Footnote 59:

In the original, from Ceca to Mecca; a phrase derived from the customs of the Moors, who used to go in pilgrimage to these two places. Ceca was in the city of Cordova.

Footnote 60:

Zebra is a beautiful creature, native of Arabia, vulgarly called the wild ass.

Footnote 61:

I have endeavoured to preserve an alliteration in tooth and treasure, after the example of Cervantes, who seems to have intended it, in the words _diente_ and _diamante_.

CHAP. V. AN ACCOUNT OF THE SAGE DISCOURSE THAT PASSED BETWEEN SANCHO AND HIS MASTER—THE SUCCEEDING ADVENTURE OF THE CORPSE—WITH OTHER REMARKABLE EVENTS.

‘In my opinion, my good master, all the misventures, which have this day happened to us, are designed as a punishment for the sins committed by your worship, in neglecting to fulfil the oath you took, not to eat off a table-cloth, nor solace yourself with the queen; together with all the rest that follows, which your worship swore to observe, until such time as you could carry off that helmet of Malandrino, or how d’ye call the Moor? for I don’t remember his right name.’—‘Thou art very much in the right,’ said Don Quixote: ‘to deal ingenuously with thee, Sancho, that affair had actually slipt out of my remembrance; and thou mayest depend upon it, that affair of the blanketing happened to thee, for the fault thou wast guilty of, in omitting to put me in mind of it in time: but I will make an atonement; for there are methods for compounding every thing, in the order of chivalry.’—‘Did I swear any thing?’ replied Sancho. ‘Your not having sworn is of no importance,’ said Don Quixote; ‘it is enough that I know you to be concerned as an accessary; and whether that be the case or not, it will not be amiss to provide a remedy.’—‘Well, then,’ replied the squire, ‘I hope your worship will not forget this, as you did the oath: perhaps the phantoms may take it in their heads again to divert themselves with me, and even with your worship, if they find you obstinate.’

In this and other such discourse, night overtook them in the midst of their journey, before they could light on or discover any house where they could procure lodging; and what was worse, they were almost famished; for in their bags they had lost their whole buttery and provision: nay, to crown their misfortune, an adventure happened to them, that, without any exaggeration, might have actually passed for something preternatural. Though the night shut in very dark, they continued travelling; Sancho believing, that, as they were in the king’s highway, they should probably find an inn at the distance of a league or two.

Jogging on, therefore, under cloud of night, the squire exceeding hungry, and the master very well disposed to eat, they descried upon the road before them a vast number of lights, that seemed like moving stars, approaching them. Sancho was confounded at the sight, the meaning of which even Don Quixote could not comprehend: the one checked his ass, the other pulled in his horse’s bridle, and both halted, in order to gaze attentively at the apparition of the lights, which seemed to increase the nearer they came. This being perceived by the squire, he began to quake like quicksilver; and the hair bristled up on Don Quixote’s head: nevertheless, recollecting himself a little, ‘Without doubt, Sancho,’ said he, ‘this must be a vast and perilous adventure in which I shall be obliged to exert my whole strength and prowess.’—‘Woe is me!’ cried Sancho, ‘if perchance this should be an adventure of phantoms, as I am afraid it is, where shall I find ribs for the occasion?’—‘Phantoms or not phantoms,’ said the knight, ‘I will not suffer them to touch a thread of thy cloaths: if they made merry at thy expence before, it was owing to my incapacity to climb over the yard wall; but at present we are in an open field, where I can manage my sword as I please.’—‘But if they should benumb and bewitch you, as they did in the morning,’ said the squire, ‘what benefit shall I receive from being in the open field?’—‘Be that as it will,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘I beseech thee, Sancho, be of good courage, and thou shalt soon know by experience how much I am master of that virtue.’ Sancho accordingly promised to do his best, with God’s assistance. Then they both stepped to one side of the road, and began to gaze again with great attention. While they were thus endeavouring to discern the meaning of the lights, they perceived a great number of persons in white; which dreadful vision entirely extinguished the courage of Sancho Panza, whose teeth began to chatter, as if he had been in the cold fit of an ague; and this agitation and chattering increased, when they saw them more distinctly; for, first and foremost appeared about twenty persons on horseback, all of them cloathed in white, with each a lighted flambeau in his hand, muttering in a low and plaintive tone. Behind them came a litter covered with black, followed by six mounted cavaliers in deep mourning, that trailed at the very heels of their mules, which were easily distinguished from horses by the slowness of their pace.

This strange vision, at such an hour, and in such a desart place, was surely sufficient to smite the heart of Sancho with fear, and even make an impression upon his master; and this would have been the case, had he been any other than Don Quixote; as for the squire, his whole stock of resolution went to wreck. It was not so with his master, whose imagination clearly represented to him, that this was exactly an adventure of the same kind with those he had read in books of chivalry; that the close litter was a bier, in which was carried some dead or wounded knight, the revenge of whose wrongs was reserved for him alone: wherefore, without canvassing the matter any farther, he set his lance in the rest, fixed himself in his seat, and with the most genteel and gallant deportment, placing himself in the middle of the road, through which they were indispensibly obliged to pass, he raised his voice, and called to them as they approached—

‘Halt, knights, whosoever ye are, and give an account of yourselves: whence come ye? whither go ye? and what are you carrying off in that bier? for, in all appearance, you have either done or received an injury; and it is necessary and convenient that I should know it, in order to chastise you for what you are now doing, or revenge the wrong you have already done.’—‘We are at present in a hurry,’ replied one of the phantoms in white; ‘the inn we intend to lodge at is far off, and we cannot stay to give such a tedious account as you desire.’ So saying, he spurred on his mule; while Don Quixote, mightily incensed at this reply, laid hold of his bridle, saying, ‘Stand, and answer the questions I have asked, with more civility; otherwise I will give battle to you all.’

The mule being skittish, was frighted in such a manner, at being seized by the bridle, that rearing on her hind feet, she fell backward upon her rider; and a servant on foot, seeing his master fall, began to revile Don Quixote, whose choler being already provoked, he couched his lance, and without hesitation attacked one of the mourners, who soon fell to the ground, most miserably mauled; then wheeling about upon the rest, it was surprizing to see with what dispatch he assaulted and put them to the rout! while Rozinante acted with such agility and fury, that one would have sworn, at that instant, a pair of wings had sprung from his back. All the squadron arrayed in white, was composed of timorous and unarmed people, who were fain to get out of the fray as soon as possible, and began to fly across the plain, with their lighted torches like so many maskers in carnival time. The mourners being involved and intangled in their long robes, could not stir out of the way; so that Don Quixote, without running any risk, drubbed them all round, and obliged them at length to quit the field, much against their inclination; for they actually believed he was no man, but a devil incarnate, who lay in wait to carry off the dead body that was in the litter.

All this while Sancho stood beholding with admiration the courage and intrepidity of the knight; saying within himself, ‘This master of mine is certainly as strong and valiant as he pretends to be.’

Meanwhile, Don Quixote, by the light of a torch that lay burning on the ground, perceiving the first whom the mule overthrew, rode up to him, and clapping the point of his lance to the poor man’s throat, commanded him to yield, otherwise he would put him to death. To this declaration the other answered, ‘Methinks I am already sufficiently quiet; for one of my legs is broke, so that I cannot stir; I beseech your worship, therefore, if you be a Christian, not to kill me, as in so doing you will commit the horrid sin of sacrilege; for I am a licentiate, and have taken holy orders.’—‘If you are an ecclesiastick, what the devil brought you here?’ cried Don Quixote. ‘The devil, indeed, I think it was,’ answered the overthrown priest. ‘You will have to do with worse than the devil,’ said the knight, ‘if you refuse the satisfaction I at first demanded.’—‘That is easily granted,’ replied the other; ‘and in the first place your worship must know, that though I just now called myself a licentiate, I am no more than a batchelor: my name is Alonzo Lopez; I was born at Alcovendas; and now come from the city of Baeça, in company with eleven other priests, who are those who fled with the torches; we are conveying to Segovia that litter which contains the corpse of a gentleman who died at Baeça, where it was deposited till now, (as I was saying) that we are carrying his bones to be interred at Segovia, which was the place of his nativity.’—‘And who killed him?’ said Don Quixote. ‘God himself,’ replied the batchelor, ‘by means of a pestilential calenture that seized him!’—‘At that rate,’ resumed the knight, ‘the Lord hath saved me the trouble of avenging his death, as I would have done, had he been slain by any mortal arm; but, considering how he died, there is nothing to be done, except to shrug up our shoulders in silence, for this is all that could happen, even if I myself should fall by the same hand; and I desire your reverence would take notice, that I am a knight of La Mancha, called Don Quixote, whose office and exercise is to travel through the world, redressing grievances and righting wrongs[62].’—‘I do not know how you can call this behaviour righting wrongs,’ said the batchelor: ‘I am sure you have changed my right into wrong, by breaking my leg, which will never be set to rights again so long as I live; and the grievances you have redressed for me, have been to aggrieve me in such a manner, as that I shall never cease to grieve at my misventure, in meeting with you, while you was in search of adventures.’—‘All things do not equally succeed,’ observed the knight; ‘it was the misfortune of you and your companions, Mr. Batchelor Alonzo Lopez, to travel in the night, with these surplices and lighted flambeaus, singing all the way, before people clad in deep mourning, so that you seemed a company of ghosts broke from the other world, therefore I could not help performing my duty in attacking you; and I would have behaved in the same manner, had I actually known you to be really and truly the inhabitants of hell; for such indeed I thought you were.’—‘Since my hard fate would have it so,’ said the batchelor, ‘I entreat your worship, Sir knight-errant, who have been the cause of an unlucky errand to me, to help me from getting under the mule, which keeps one of my legs fast jammed between the stirrup and the saddle.’—‘I might have talked on till morning,’ said the knight; ‘why did not you inform me of your distress sooner?’

He then called aloud to Sancho, who was in no hurry to hear him, but busy in rummaging a sumpter-mule which those honest priests brought along with them, well furnished with provisions. Having made a bag of his great coat, into which he crammed as much of their victuals as it would hold, he loaded his ass with the bundle, and then running up to his master, helped to free Mr. Batchelor from the oppression of his mule, on which having mounted him, with a torch in his hand, Don Quixote advised him to follow the route of his companions; and desired him to beg their pardon in his name, for the injury he had done them, as it was not in his power to avoid it. Sancho, likewise interposing, said, ‘If in case the gentleman should want to know who the valiant hero is who put them to flight, your worship may tell them, that he is the famous Don Quixote de La Mancha, otherwise surnamed the Knight of the Rueful Countenance.’

Thus dismissed, the batchelor pursued his way; and the knight asked what had induced Sancho, now, rather than at any other time, to stile him the Knight of the Rueful Countenance. ‘Truly,’ answered Sancho, ‘I have been looking at you some time by the light of that torch the unfortunate traveller held in his hand; and in good faith, your worship cuts the most dismal figure I have almost ever seen; and it must certainly be occasioned either by the fatigue you have undergone in this battle, or by the want of your teeth.’—‘That is not the case,’ replied his master; ‘but the sage who is destined to write the history of my exploits, hath thought proper that I should assume some appellation, by the example of former knights, one of whom took the title of the Flaming Sword; another of the Unicorn; a third of the Ladies; a fourth of the Phœnix; a fifth of the Griffin; a sixth called himself the Knight of Death; and by these epithets and symbols they were known all over the face of the earth; and therefore I say, that the forementioned sage hath now put it into thy thoughts, and directed thy tongue to call me the Knight of the Rueful Countenance; an appellation that henceforward I adopt; and that it may suit me the better, I am resolved to have a most woeful figure painted upon my shield, with the first opportunity.’—‘There is no occasion,’ said Sancho, ‘to throw away time and money on such a device; your worship has nothing more to do but uncover your face; and I’ll warrant those who behold it will call it a rueful one, without your having recourse to pictures and shields to explain your meaning; and you may believe I tell you nothing but the truth, when I maintain, though it be but in jest, that hunger and want of teeth makes your worship look so ill-favouredly, that we may very well save the expence of a rueful picture.’

Don Quixote could not help laughing at the pleasantry of Sancho, though he actually determined to assume that name, and have his shield and target painted according to his fancy, ‘I know, Sancho,’ said he, ‘that I have incurred the sentence of excommunication, for having laid violent hands on consecrated things, according to the canon; “_Si quis suadente diabolo, &c._” yet you know I touched them not with my hands, but with my lance; and even then never dreamed of injuring priests, or of giving the smallest offence to the church, which I respect and adore, like a faithful catholick and Christian as I am; but, on the contrary, took them for phantoms and beings of another world: but the case being as it is, I remember what happened to the Cid Ruy Diaz, who broke to pieces the chair of a certain king’s ambassador, in presence of his holiness the pope; for which outrage he was excommunicated; and that very day the worthy Rodrigo de Vivar behaved like a valiant and honourable knight.’

The batchelor being gone, as we have observed, without answering one word, Don Quixote expressed a desire of examining the litter, to see if it really contained a corpse; but Sancho would by no means consent to this enquiry, saying, ‘Your worship has already finished this perilous adventure with less damage to yourself than I have seen you receive in any other; but the people whom you have conquered and overthrown, may chance to recollect that they were vanquished by a single man, and be so much ashamed and confounded at their own cowardice as to rally, and if they find us, give us our belly-full. Dapple is at present very comfortably furnished; there is an uninhabited mountain hard by, hunger is craving, we have nothing to do but retreat thither at a gentle trot; and, as the saying is, “The dead to the bier, and the living to good cheer.”’ With these words he took the lead with his ass, and the knight thinking there was a good deal of reason in what he said, followed him very peaceably, without making any reply.

When they had travelled a little way between two hills, they found themselves in a spacious and retired valley, where they alighted; Sancho unloaded the ass, they sat down on the green turf, and with hunger for their sauce, dispatched their breakfast, dinner, afternoon’s luncheon, and supper, at one meal; solacing their stomachs out of more than one basket, which the ecclesiastical attendants of the defunct, who seldom neglect these things, had brought along with them on their sumpter-mule: but another misfortune befel them, which, in Sancho’s opinion, was the worst that could happen: they had not one drop of wine to drink, nor indeed of water to cool their throats, so that they were parched with thirst; then the squire, perceiving the meadow where they sat was overgrown with green and tender grass, made the proposal which may be seen in the following chapter.

Footnote 62:

Knights engaged themselves, by oath, to protect the widow and the orphan, to redress all injuries; and, in a special manner, to defend the characters of ladies by force of arms.

CHAP. VI. OF THE UNSEEN AND UNHEARD OF ADVENTURE ATCHIEVED BY THE VALIANT DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA, WITH LESS HAZARD THAN EVER ATTENDED ANY EXPLOIT PERFORMED BY THE MOST RENOWNED KNIGHT ON EARTH.

‘This grass, my good master, proves beyond all contradiction, that there must be some spring or rivulet hereabouts by which it is watered; and therefore we had better proceed a little farther, until we find wherewith to allay this terrible thirst, which is more painful and fatiguing than hunger alone.’ This advice appearing rational to Don Quixote, he took hold of Rozinante’s bridle, and Sancho leading Dapple by the halter, after he had loaded him again with the fragments of their supper, they began to move farther into the meadow, at a venture; for the night was so dark, they could not distinguish one object from another: but they had not gone two hundred paces, when their ears were saluted with a prodigious noise of water, that seemed to rush down from some huge and lofty rocks; they were infinitely rejoiced at the sound, when halting to listen, that they might know whence it came, they were all of a sudden surprized with another kind of noise, that soon damped the pleasure occasioned by the water, especially in Sancho, who was naturally fearful and faint-hearted; I say they heard the sound of regular strokes, accompanied with strange clanking of iron chains, which, added to the dreadful din of the cataract, would have smote the heart of any other but Don Quixote with fear and consternation.

The night, as we have already observed, was dark; our travellers happened at this time to be in a grove of tall trees, whose leaves, moving gently by the wind, yielded a sort of dreary whisper: so that the solitude of the place, the darkness of the night, the noise of the water, and rustling of the leaves, concurred to inspire them with horror and dismay; the more so, as the strokes were continued, the wind sighed on, and the morning was far off; and all these circumstances were aggravated by their ignorance of the place in which they were. But Don Quixote, encouraged by his own intrepid heart, mounted Rozinante, braced his shield, and brandishing his lance, ‘Friend Sancho,’ cried he, ‘know that I was born by Heaven’s appointment in these iron times to revive the age of gold, or, as it is usually called, the golden age. I am he for whom strange perils, valiant deeds, and vast adventures, are reserved! I am he, I say, ordained to re-establish the Knights of the Round-table, the Twelve Peers of France, with the Nine Worthies! He whose feats shall bury, in oblivion the Platirs, Tablantes, Olivantes, and Tirantes, the Febuses and Belianises, together with the whole tribe of knights-errant who lived in former times; performing such mighty and amazing deeds of arms, as will eclipse their most renowned acts! Consider well, thou true and loyal squire, the darkness and the solemn stillness of this night, the indistinct and hollow whispering of these trees, the dreadful din of that water we came to seek, which seems to rush and rumble down from the lofty mountains of the moon; together with these incessant strokes that strike and wound our ears: all those circumstances united, or each singly by itself, is sufficient to infuse fear, terror, and dismay, into the breast of Mars himself; much more in him who is altogether unaccustomed to such adventures and events. Yet all I have described are only incentives that awaken my courage, and already cause my heart to rebound within my breast, with desire to atchieve this adventure, howsoever difficult it may appear to be! Therefore straiten Rozinante’s girth, recommend thyself to God, and wait for me in this place, three days at farthest; within which time, if I come not back, thou mayest return to our village; and, as the last favour and service done to me, go from thence to Toboso, and inform my incomparable mistress, Dulcinea, that her captive knight died in attempting things that might render him worthy to be called her lover.’

When Sancho heard these last words of his master, he began to blubber with incredible tenderness. ‘I cannot conceive,’ said he, ‘why your worship should attempt such a terrible adventure: it is now dark, and nobody sees us; therefore we may turn out of this road and avoid the danger, though we should not taste liquor these three days; and if nobody sees us, we run no risk of being accused of cowardice; besides, I have heard the curate of our town, whom your worship knows very well, remark in his preaching, “He that seeketh danger perisheth therein;” therefore it must be a sin to tempt God by engaging in this rash exploit, from whence there is no escaping without a miracle; and Heaven hath wrought enow of them already, in preserving you from being blanketed as I was, and bringing you off conqueror, and sound wind and limb, from the midst of so many adversaries as accompanied the dead man: and if all this will not move you, nor soften your rugged heart, sure you will relent, when you consider and are assured that your worship will be scarce gone from hence, when I shall I through pure fear yield my life to any thing that may chuse to take it. I left my habitation, wife and children, to come and serve your worship, believing it would be the better, not the worse for me so to do; but as greediness bursts the bag, so is the bag of my hopes bursten; for when they are at the highest pitch, in expectation of that curst unlucky island your worship has promised me so often, I find in lieu of that, you want to make me amends by leaving me in this desart, removed from all human footsteps: for the love of God, dear master, do me not such wrong; or if your worship is resolved to attempt this atchievement at any rate, at least delay it till morning, which, according to the signs I learned when I was a shepherd, will appear in less than three hours; for the muzzle of the bear is at the top of his head[63], and shews midnight in the line of the left paw.’

‘How canst thou perceive,’ said Don Quixote, ‘that line, or head, or muzzle, thou talked of, when the night is so dark that there is not a star to be seen?’—‘It is so,’ answered Sancho; ‘but fear hath many eyes; and I can at present behold things that are hid within the bowels of the earth; much more those that appear in the firmament above: a man of sound judgment, like me, can easily foretel that it will soon be day.’—‘Let it come when it will,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘it shall not be said of me, either now or at any other time, that I was diverted by tears and intreaties from doing what I owed to the customs of chivalry; I therefore beseech thee, Sancho, to hold thy peace; for God, who hath put it in my heart to attempt this dreadful and unseen adventure, will doubtless take care of my safety, and comfort thee in thy affliction: thy business at present is to gird fast Rozinante, and remain in this place, for dead or alive I will soon return.’

Sancho finding this was the final resolution of his master, and how little all his tears, advice, and intreaties availed, determined, to make use of stratagem to detain the knight, if possible, till morning: with this purpose, under pretence of adjusting the girth of Rozinante, he fair and softly, without being perceived, tied two of the horse’s feet together with the halter of his ass, in such a manner, that when Don Quixote attempted to depart, he found it impossible, because his steed could move no otherwise than by leaps. The squire perceiving the success of his invention, ‘Sir,’ said he, ‘you may see that Heaven, melted by my tears and prayers, hath ordained that Rozinante shall not stir; and if you obstinately persist in spurring and driving him on, you will only give offence to Providence, and, as the saying is, “Kick against the pricks.”’

The knight actually despaired of making him go forward, because the more he goaded his horse, the less was he inclined to stir; and therefore, without guessing a tittle of the ligature, thought proper to submit and wait with patience, either till morning, or such time as Rozinante should recover the use of his limbs; believing for certain, that his disappointment was owing to another cause than the craft of his squire, to whom he said, ‘Since Rozinante is incapable of moving, I am content to wait for the dawn, though I cannot help lamenting its delay.’—‘You shall have no cause for lamentation,’ answered Sancho; ‘I will entertain your worship with telling stories till day, unless you chuse to alight, and take a nap on the soft grass according to the custom of knights-errant, that you may find yourself refreshed when day breaks, and ready to undertake the unconscionable adventure that awaits you.’—‘Talk not to me of alighting or sleeping,’ said Don Quixote; ‘dost thou imagine me to be one of those knights who seek their repose in times of danger? Sleep thou who wast born to sleep, or follow thy own inclinations; for my own part, I will behave as becomes a person of my pretensions.’—‘Let not your worship be offended; for that was not my intention when I spoke;’ answered Sancho; who coming close to him, laid hold of the saddle before and behind, and stood embracing his master’s left thigh, without daring to stir a finger’s breadth from the spot; such was his consternation, inspired by the strokes, which all this time sounded alternately in his ears.

Then Don Quixote claiming his promise of entertaining him with some story; ‘I would with all my heart,’ said Sancho, ‘if the dread of what I hear would allow me; but nevertheless I will try to force out one story, which if I hit it aright, without letting it slip through my hands, is the best tale that ever was told; therefore I would have your worship be attentive, for thus I begin.

‘There was, so there was; the good that shall fall, betide us all; and he that seeks evil, may he meet with the devil. Your worship may take notice, that the beginning of ancient tales is not just what came into the head of the teller: no, they always began with some saying of Cato the censor of Rome, like this of, “He that seeks evil, may he meet with the devil.” And truly it comes as pat to the purpose as the ring to my finger, in order to persuade your worship to remain where you are, without going in search of evil in any manner of way; or else to turn into another road, since we are not bound to follow this in which we have been surprized with fear and terror.’—‘Follow thy story, Sancho,’ said Don Quixote; ‘and as to the road we have to follow, leave the care of that to me.’—‘To proceed, then,’ said Sancho; ‘in a certain village of Estremadura there lived a certain goat shepherd; I mean, one that kept goats; and this shepherd or goatherd, as the story goes, was called Lope Ruyz; and it came to pass, that this Lope Ruyz fell in love with a shepherdess whose name was Torralva; which shepherdess, whose name was Torralva, was the daughter of a rich herdsman; and this rich herdsman—’

‘If thou telleth thy tale in this manner,’ cried Don Quixote, ‘repeating every circumstance twice over, it will not be finished these two days: proceed therefore connectedly, and rehearse it like a man of understanding; otherwise thou hadst better hold thy tongue.’—‘In my country,’ answered Sancho, ‘all the old stories are told in this manner; neither can I tell it in any other; nor is it civil in your worship to desire I should change the custom.’—‘Take thy own way,’ said the knight; ‘and since it is the will of fate that I should hear thee, pray go on.’

‘Well, then, good master of mine,’ proceeded Sancho, ‘that same shepherd, as I have already remarked, fell in love with the shepherdess Torralva, who was a thick, brawny wench, a little coy, and somewhat masculine; for she wore a sort of mustachios: methinks I see her now for all the world.’—‘Then thou knewest her?’ said the knight. ‘Not I,’ answered the squire; ‘but the person who told me the story, said it was so true and certain, that if ever I should chance to tell it again, I might affirm upon oath that I had seen it with my own eyes—And so, in process of time, the devil, who never sleeps, but wants to have a finger in every pye, managed matters in such a manner, that the shepherd’s love for the shepherdess was turned into malice and deadly hate: and the cause, according to evil tongues, was a certain quantity of small jealousies she gave him, exceeding all bounds of measure. And such was the abhorrence the shepherd conceived for her, from that good day forward, that, in order to avoid the sight of her, he resolved to absent himself from his own country, and go where he should never set eyes on her again. Torralva, finding herself despised by Lope, began to love him more than ever.’—‘That is the natural disposition of the sex,’ said Don Quixote, ‘to disdain those who adore them, and love those by whom they are abhorred: but proceed, Sancho.’

‘It so fell out,’ said Sancho, ‘that the shepherd put his resolution in practice, and driving his goats before him, travelled through the plains of Estremadura, towards the kingdom of Portugal. Torralva, having got an inkling of his design, was soon at his heels, following him on foot, aye, and barefoot too, with a pilgrim’s staff in her hand, and a wallet at her back, in which, as the report goes, she carried a bit of a looking-glass, a broken comb, and a kind of phial of wash for her complexion: but howsomever, whether she carried these things or not, I shall not at present take upon me to aver; but only say what is recorded, that the shepherd came with his flock to the river Guadiana, which at that time was very high, having almost forsaken its channel; and finding at the place neither boat nor bark to carry himself and his flock to the other side, he was very much in the dumps, because he saw Torralva behind him, and knew what he must suffer from her tears and complaints: but looking about, he at last perceived hard by him a fisherman in a boat, that was so small as to contain only one person and one goat: nevertheless, they struck up a bargain, by which the man was to ferry over the shepherd with his three hundred goats. Accordingly the fisherman took one goat into the boat, and carried it over; then he returned and carried over another, then he returned again to fetch another. Pray, good your worship, keep an exact account of the goats, as the fisherman ferried them over; for, if one only should be lost in the reckoning, the story will break off, and it will be impossible for me to relate one word more. To be short, then, I say, the landing-place on the other side being full of mud and slippery, was a great hindrance to the fisherman in his going and coming; but however he returned for the other goat, and then for some more, and then for another.’

‘Suppose them all passed over at once,’ said Don Quixote, ‘for if thou goest backwards and forwards in this manner, thou wilt not have them all ferried over in a year.’—‘How many have already passed?’ said the squire. ‘How the devil should I know?’ answered the knight. ‘Did not I tell you to keep a good account?’ said Sancho; ‘now, before God, the tale is ended, and it is impossible to proceed!’—‘How can that be?’ replied Don Quixote; ‘is it so essential to the story to know the number of goats as they passed, so precisely, that if I misreckon one, thou canst not proceed?’—‘Certainly, Sir,’ said Sancho, ‘I can proceed in no manner of way: for when I desired your worship to tell me what number of goats had passed, and you answered you did not know; at that instant the whole of the story that remained untold, vanished from my remembrance; and, upon my conscience! it was very curious and entertaining.’—‘At that rate, then, the story is at an end?’ said Don Quixote. ‘As much at an end,’ replied the squire, ‘as the mother that bore me.’

‘In good sooth,’ resumed the knight, ‘thou hast related the strangest fable, tale, or story, that ever was invented; and finished thy relation in such a manner as never was or will be heard again in this world; but nothing else was to be expected from thy sound judgment; and indeed it is a matter of no admiration with me, because I take it for granted, that these incessant strokes have disordered thy understanding.’—‘Not unlikely,’ said Sancho; ‘but this I know, that there is no more to be said of the tale, which ended in that place where the mistake began about the passage of the goats.’—‘In good time end it according to thy own pleasure,’ replied the knight, ‘and now let us see if Rozinante will move.’ So saying, he began again to spur, and the horse to leap without moving from his station, so effectually had Sancho fettered him.

About this time, whether it was owing to the coolness of the morning that approached, or to his having supped upon something that was laxative; or, which is more probable, to the operation of nature; Sancho was seized with an inclination and desire of doing that which could not be performed by proxy; but such was the terror that had taken possession of his soul, that he durst not move the breadth of a nail-pairing from his master’s side; at the same time it was as impossible for him to resist the motion of his bowels; and therefore, to compromise the matter, he slipped his right-hand from the hinder part of the saddle, and without any noise softly undid the slip-knot by which his breeches were kept up; upon which they of themselves fell down to his heels, where they remained like a pair of shackles; he then gathered up his shirt behind as well as he could, and exposed his posteriors, which were none of the smallest, to the open air: this being done, and he imagined it was the chief step he could take to deliver himself from the pressing occasion and dilemma in which he was, another difficulty still greater occurred, namely, that he should not be able to disincumber himself without noise; he therefore began to fix his teeth close, shrug up his shoulders, and hold in his breath with all his might. But, notwithstanding these precautions, he was so unlucky in the issue, as to produce a rumbling sound very different from that which had terrified him so much. It did not escape the ears of Don Quixote, who immediately cried, ‘What noise is that, Sancho?’—‘I know not, Sir,’ said the squire; ‘it must be some new affair, for adventures and misventures never begin with trifles.’ He tried his fortune a second time; and, without any more noise or disorder, freed himself from the load which had given him so much uneasiness. But as Don Quixote’s sense of smelling was altogether as acute as that of his hearing, and Sancho stood so close to him that the vapours ascended towards him almost in a direct line, he could not exclude some of them from paying a visit to his nose. No sooner was he sensible of the first salutation, than, in his own defence, he pressed his nose between his finger and thumb, and, in a snuffling tone, pronounced, ‘Sancho, thou seemest to be in great fear.’—‘I am so,’ answered the squire; ‘but how comes your worship to perceive my fears now more than ever?’—‘Because at present thou smellest more than ever, and that not of amber,’ replied the knight. ‘That may be,’ said Sancho; ‘but I am not so much to blame as your worship, who drags me at such unseasonable hours into these uninhabited places.’—‘Retire three or four steps farther off, friend,’ resumed Don Quixote, stopping his nose all the time, ‘and henceforth take more heed of thy own person, and remember what thou owest to mine; for I find the frequent conversation I maintain with thee, hath engendered this disrespect.’—‘I’ll lay a wager,’ replied Sancho, ‘that your worship thinks I have been doing something I ought not to have done.’—‘The more you stir it, friend Sancho,’ said the knight, ‘the more it will stink.’

In this and other such discourse, the master and his squire passed the night; but Sancho perceiving the day begin to break apace, with great care and secresy unbound Rozinante, and tied up his breeches. The beast, which was naturally none of the briskest, seemed to rejoice at his freedom, and began to paw the ground; for as to curvetting, with his leave be it spoken, he knew nothing of the matter. Don Quixote, finding him so mettlesome, conceived a good omen from his eagerness, believing it a certain presage of his success in the dreadful adventure he was about to atchieve. Aurora now disclosed herself, and objects appearing distinctly, Don Quixote found himself in a grove of tall chesnut-trees, which formed a very thick shade. The strokes still continuing, though he could not conceive the meaning of them, he, without farther delay, made Rozinante feel the spur; then turning to take leave of Sancho, commanded him to wait three days at farthest, as he had directed before; and if he should not return before that time was expired, he might take it for granted that God had been pleased to put a period to his life in that perilous adventure; he again recommended to him the embassy and message he should carry from him to his mistress Dulcinea, and bade him give himself no uneasiness about his wages; for he had made a will before he quitted his family, in which he should find his services repaid, by a salary proportioned to the time of his attendance: but if Heaven should be pleased to bring him off from that danger, safe, sound, and free, he might, beyond all question, lay his account with the government of the island he had promised him. Sancho, hearing these dismal expressions of his worthy master repeated, began to blubber afresh, and resolved not to leave him until the last circumstance and issue of the affair.

From these tears, and this honourable determination of Sancho Panza, the author of this history concludes, that he must have been a gentleman born, or an old Christian at least. His master himself was melted a little at this testimony of his affection, but not so much as to discover the least weakness: on the contrary, disguising his sentiments, he rode forward towards the place from whence the noise of the strokes and water seemed to come; Sancho followed on foot, and according to custom, leading by the halter his ass, which was the constant companion of his good and evil fortune. Having travelled a good way among those shady chesnut-trees, they arrived in a small meadow lying at the foot of a huge rock, over which a stream of water rushed down with vast impetuosity. Below appeared a few wretched huts, that looked more like ruins than houses; and they observed that from them proceeded the horrible din of the strokes, which had not yet ceased.

Rozinante being startled at the dreadful noise of the strokes and water, Don Quixote endeavoured to soothe him, and advanced by little and little towards the huts, recommending himself in the most earnest manner to his mistress, whose favour he implored in the atchievement of that fearful enterprize: neither did he omit praying to God for his protection. Sancho, who never stirred from his side, thrust his neck as far as he could between the legs of Rozinante, in order to discover the objects that kept him in such terror and suspence; and when they had proceeded about a hundred paces farther, at the doubling of a corner, stood fully disclosed to view the very individual and undoubted cause of this tremendous sound and terrible noise, which had filled them with such doubts and consternation all night long.

This was no other, (be not offended, gentle reader) than six fulling-hammers, which, by their alternate strokes, produced that amazing din. Don Quixote was struck dumb with astonishment at the sight; Sancho looked at him, and found his head hanging down upon his breast, and other manifest signs of his being out of countenance. The knight, in his turn, looked at the squire, and saw his mouth shut, his cheeks puffed up, with other symptoms of his being ready to burst with laughing. This comical situation of the squire, in spite of all his own melancholy, obliged the master to begin; and Sancho no sooner beheld the severity of the knight’s features relaxed, than he opened the flood-gates of his mirth, which broke forth with such violence, that he was under the necessity of supporting his sides with both fists, that they might not be rent to pieces by the convulsion. Four times did he exhaust, and as often renew the laugh with the same impetuosity as at first; for which Don Quixote already wished him at the devil, more especially when he heard him pronounce, by way of sneer, ‘Know, friend Sancho, that I was born by Heaven’s appointment, in these iron times, to revive the age of gold, or the Golden Age! I am he for whom strange perils, valiant deeds, and vast adventures, are reserved!’ And in this manner he proceeded, repeating all, or the greater part of the knight’s exclamation, when they first heard the terrible noise.

Don Quixote finding that Sancho made a jest of him, was so much ashamed and provoked, that, lifting up his lance, he bestowed upon him two or three thwacks, which, had they fallen upon his head, as they lighted on his shoulders, would have saved his master the trouble of paying his salary, unless it might be to his heirs. Sancho feeling his joke turned into such disagreeable earnest, which he was afraid might not be as yet over, addressed himself to his master with great humility, saying, ‘Good your worship, forbear; before God, I was only in jest.’—‘Though you was in jest,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘I was not quite so merrily disposed: come hither, Mr. Joker; don’t you think, that if, instead of fulling-hammers, these had been some very dangerous adventure, I have shewn courage enough to undertake and atchieve it? Am I, who am a knight, obliged, for sooth, to distinguish sounds, and know which proceed from fulling-mills, and which do not? especially as it may be the case, and it really is so, that I never saw one before; though it is otherwise with thee, base plebeian as thou art, who was born and bred up among them: but see if thou canst metamorphose these six hammers into so many giants, and bring them within arm’s length of me, one by one, or all together; and if I don’t make them lie with their heels uppermost, make a jest of me as much as you please.’

‘Enough, dear master,’ replied Sancho, ‘I confess I have exceeded a little in my pleasantry; but, pray tell me now, that we are at peace again, as God shall deliver your worship from all succeeding adventures as safe and sound as you have been extricated from this, is not the terror with which we were seized, a thing to be laughed at and repeated? I mean, my own terror; for, as to your worship, I know you are an utter stranger to terror and dismay!’—‘I do not deny,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘that what hath happened to us is ridiculous enough; but, nevertheless, it ought not to be repeated; because every body has not discretion to take things by the right handle.’—‘I am sure,’ replied Sancho, ‘that your worship knows how to handle your lance, with which, while you wanted to handle my head, you happened to salute my shoulders; thanks be to God, and my own activity, in avoiding the blow: but all that, when it is dry, will rub out; and I have often heard it said, “He that loves thee well, will often make thee cry.” Nay, it is a common thing for your gentry, when they have said a harsh thing to a servant, to make it up with him by giving him a pair of cast breeches; though I don’t know what they used to give after having beaten him, unless it be the practice of knights-errant, after blows, to give islands, or kingdoms on the main land.’

‘Who knows,’ said Don Quixote, ‘but the dice may run that way, and all that thou hast mentioned come to pass. I ask pardon for what is past, since you are resolved to be more discreet for the future; and as the first emotions are not in a man’s own power, I must apprize thee henceforward to be more reserved, and abstain from speaking so freely to me; for in all the books of chivalry I have read, and they are almost infinite, I never found that any squire talked so much to his master as thou hast talked to thine: and really both you and I are very much to blame; thou, in regarding me so little; and I, in not making myself regarded more. Was not Gandalin, squire of Amadis de Gaul, count of the Firm Island? and yet we read of him, that he always spoke to his master cap in hand, with an inclination of his head, and his body bent in the Turkish manner. What need I mention Gasabal, squire to Don Galaor, who was so reserved, that, in order to express the excellence of his surprizing silence, his name is mentioned but once in the whole course of that equally vast and true history. From what I have said, Sancho, thou art to draw this inference, that there is a necessity for maintaining some distinction between the master and his man, the gentleman and his servant, and the knight and his squire: wherefore, from this day forward, we are to be treated with more respect and less provocation; for if ever I am incensed by you again, in any shape whatever, the pitcher will pay for all. The favours and benefits I have promised will come in due time; and if they should fail, your wages at least will be forthcoming, as I have already informed you.’

‘All that your worship observes is very just,’ said Sancho; ‘but I should be glad to know, since if the benefits come not in time, I must be fain to put up with the wages, what was the hire of a knight-errant’s squire in those days; and whether they agreed by the month or the day, like common labourers?’—‘I do not believe,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘that they were retained for hire, but depended altogether on favour; and though I have bequeathed a sum to thee in my will, which I have left signed and sealed at home, it was done in case of the worst; for one does not know how chivalry may succeed in these calamitous times: and I would not have my soul punished in the other world for so small a matter; for, let me tell thee, Sancho, in this there is not a more dangerous course than that of adventures.’—‘That I know to be true,’ answered the squire, ‘since the noise of a fulling-mill could daunt and disturb the heart of such a valiant knight-errant as your worship: but this I assure you of, that from this good hour, my lips shall never give umbrage to your worship in turning your affairs to jest again; but, on the contrary, honour you as my natural lord and master.’—‘In so doing,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘thou shalt live long upon the face of the earth; for, after your father and mother, you ought to respect your master as another parent.’

Footnote 63:

In Castilian, _bocina_ signifies a cornet, or hunting-horn, to which the Spaniards suppose the constellation of Ursa Minor bears some resemblance.

CHAP. VII. OF THE SUBLIME ADVENTURE AND SHINING ACQUISITION OF MAMBRINO’S HELMET—WITH OTHER ACCIDENTS THAT HAPPENED TO OUR INVINCIBLE KNIGHT.

About this time some rain beginning to fall, Sancho proposed that they should shelter themselves in the fulling-mill; but Don Quixote had conceived such abhorrence for it on account of what was past, that he would by no means set foot within its walls; wherefore, turning to the right-hand, they chanced to fall in with a road different from that in which they had travelled the day before: they had not gone far, when the knight discovered a man riding with something on his head, that glittered like polished gold; and scarce had he descried this phænomenon, when turning to Sancho, ‘I find,’ said he, ‘that every proverb is strictly true; indeed all of them are apothegms dictated by Experience herself, the mother of all science; more especially that which says, “Shut one door, and another will soon open:” this I mention, because if last night Fortune shut against us the door we sought to enter, by deceiving us with the fulling-hammers; to-day another stands wide open, in profering to us another greater and more certain adventure, by which if I fail to enter, it shall be my own fault, and not imputed to my ignorance of fulling-mills, or the darkness of the night. This I take upon me to say, because, if I am not egregiously mistaken, the person who comes towards us, wears upon his head the very helmet of Mambrino, about which I swore the oath which thou mayest remember.’

‘Consider well what your worship says, and better still what you do!’ said Sancho. ‘I should not chuse to meet with more fulling-mills to mill us and maul us altogether out of our senses.’—‘The devil take the fellow,’ cried Don Quixote, ‘what affinity is there between a fulling-mill and a helmet?’—‘Truly, I know not,’ answered the squire; ‘but in good faith, if I were permitted to speak freely, as usual, I could perhaps give such reasons as would convince your worship, that you are mistaken in what you say.’—‘How can I be mistaken, scrupulous traitor?’ replied Don Quixote: ‘seest thou not yonder knight who rides this way upon a dapple steed with a golden helmet on his head?’—‘What I perceive and discern,’ said Sancho, ‘is no other than a man upon a grey ass, like my own, with something that glitters on his head.’—‘And that is the very helmet of Mambrino,’ replied the knight: ‘stand aside, and leave me alone to deal with him: thou shalt see, that without speaking a syllable, in order to spare time, this adventure will be concluded by my acquisition of the helmet I have longed for so much.’—‘Yes, I will take care to get out of the way,’ answered Sancho; ‘and God grant,’ cried he, as he went off, ‘that this may turn out a melon rather than a milling[64].’—‘I have already warned thee, brother,’ said the knight, ‘not to mention, nor even so much as think of the mill again: else, by Heaven! I’ll say no more, but mill the soul out of thy body.’

Sancho was fain to hold his tongue, dreading the performance of his master’s oath, which had already struck him all of a heap. The whole affair of the helmet, steed, and knight, which Don Quixote saw, was no more than this: in that neighbourhood were two villages, one of them so poor and small, that it had neither shop nor barber: for which reason, the trimmer of the larger that was hard by, served the lesser also, in which, at that time, there was a sick person to be blooded, and another to be shaved; so that this barber was going thither with his brass bason under his arm; but, as it chanced to rain while he was on the road, that he might not spoil his hat, which probably was a new one, he sheltered his head under the bason, which being clean scoured, made a flaming appearance, at the distance of half a league; and, as Sancho had observed, he rode upon a grey ass, which gave occasion to Don Quixote to believe he was some knight with a helmet of gold, mounted upon a dapple steed; for he accommodated every thing he saw, with incredible facility, to the extravagant ravings of his disordered judgment. When he, therefore, saw this unlucky knight approach, without the least expostulation, he put Rozinante to full speed, and couching his lance in the rest, resolved to run him through the body at once; but, when he was almost up with him, without checking the impetuosity of his career, he cried aloud, ‘Defend thyself, wretched caitiff, or voluntarily yield what so justly belongs to me.’

The poor barber, who neither dreaded nor dreamed of any such demand, seeing this phantom coming full speed upon him, could find no other means to defend himself from the stroke of the lance, than to throw himself down over the buttocks of his ass: then getting up, before he had scarce touched the ground, with the nimbleness of a stag, he began to fly across the plain so swift, that the wind itself could not overtake him: but he left his bason upon the spot, with which Don Quixote was satisfied, saying, ‘The pagan hath acted with discretion, in imitating the beaver, which, seeing itself chaced by the hunters, tears off with its teeth, by natural instinct, these parts for which it is pursued.’ Then, he ordered Sancho to take up the helmet, which the squire having examined all round, ‘Egad!’ said he, ‘it is a special good bason, well worth a piece of eight, if it be worth a farthing!’ and gave it to his master, who putting it on his head, and turning it round and round, without being able to find the vizor, said, ‘Without doubt, the pagan for whom this renowned helmet was first forged, must have had a most capacious head: but the worst of it is, that one half is wanting.’

When Sancho heard him call the bason a helmet, he could not refrain from laughing; but, remembering the indignation of his master, checked his mirth all of a sudden; and when Don Quixote asked what he laughed at, replied, ‘I cannot help laughing when I think of the huge head of the pagan who owned that helmet, which looks for all the world like a barber’s bason.’—‘Why, truly Sancho,’ said he, ‘I imagine that this very individual inchanted helmet, by some strange accident or other, must have fallen into the hands of somebody who did not know its inestimable value, but seeing it was made of the purest gold, melted down one half of it for sale, and left the other in this shape, resembling, as thou sayest, a barber’s bason: but be that as it may, since I am satisfied of its real worth and identity, the transmutation is of small consequence; for I will order it to be repaired in the first village where we can find a blacksmith, in such a manner as to be unexcelled, nay even unequalled by that which Vulcan forged and finished for the god of war; meanwhile, I will wear it in this manner, for it is still better than nothing at all, and will be sufficient to defend me from any shower of stones that may chance to fall.’

‘Yes, if they come not out of slings, as was the case in the skirmish between the two armies, when they demolished your worship’s grinders, and broke the cruse which contained that blessed balsam, which made me vomit up my liver and lights!’—‘That loss gives me not much uneasiness,’ answered the knight, ‘because thou knowest, Sancho, I retain the receipt of it in my memory.’—‘So do I,’ replied the squire. ‘But, Lord, let me never stir from the place where I now stand, if ever I either make or meddle with it for the future; especially as I hope I never shall have occasion for it again, being resolved, with the assistance of my five senses, to avoid being hurt myself, and also to refrain from hurting any person whatsoever. As to another bout of blanketing, I have little to say: such misfortunes are not easily prevented; but when they happen, there is nothing else to be done, but to shrug up our shoulders, hold in our breath, shut our eyes, and leave ourselves to the determination of chance and the blanket.’

‘Thou art a bad Christian, Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, when he heard these words; ‘for once you receive an injury, you never forget it; but know it is peculiar to noble and generous minds to overlook such trifles: hast thou got a leg lamed, a rib fractured, or thy head broke in the prosecution of that jest, that thou canst not forget it? for the affair, when duly considered, was no more than jest and pastime; had I not understood it so, I should have returned ere now, and done more mischief in revenging thy quarrel, than the Grecians did for the rape of Helen; who, it she had lived in this age, or if my Dulcinea had flourished in her time, would not have been so renowned for beauty.’ Here he fetched a profound sigh, and sent it to the clouds. ‘Let it pass, then, for a joke,’ said Sancho, ‘since there is no likelihood of its being revenged in earnest: but I know what sort of jokes and earnests those are; and I believe they will scarce slip out of my memory, while they remain engraven on my shoulders. But, setting this aside, I wish your worship would tell me what I shall do with this dapple steed so like a grey ass, which was abandoned by that caitiff, whom your worship overthrew; for by the swiftness of his heels, when he ran away, he seems to have no thoughts of returning; and by my whiskers ’tis an excellent beast!’

‘It is never my custom,’ said Don Quixote, ‘to plunder those I overcome; neither is it according to the laws of chivalry, to take them from their horses and leave them on foot, unless the conqueror hath lost his own during the engagement; in which case we are allowed to take the horse of the vanquished as the lawful spoils of war: wherefore, Sancho, leave that horse or ass, or what thou wilt, where he now stands, and perhaps his master, perceiving we are gone, will return and find him.’—‘God is my witness,’ answered Sancho, ‘I should be glad to carry him off, or at least exchange him for my own, which seems to be the worst of the two: truly the laws of chivalry are too confined; and since they do not extend to the exchange of one ass for another, I would fain know if they allow me to change the furniture of the one for that of the other?’—‘I am not quite clear in that particular,’ replied the knight; ‘and in such a dubious case, till such time as we can get better information, I think thou mayest exchange the furniture, if the necessity for so doing be extreme.’—‘It is so extreme,’ said Sancho, ‘that if it were for my own particular wearing, I could not want it more.’ Thus provided with a licence, he made the exchange of caparisons, and equipped his beast with such finery, that he looked ten per cent. the better.

This exploit being performed, they went to breakfast on the remains of what they had plundered from the sumpter-mule, and quenched their thirst with the water from the fulling-mills, without turning their heads that way, so much did they abhor them on account of the dread which they had inspired. The rage of hunger and anxiety being thus appeased, they mounted, and without following any determined course, (for it is the practice of true knights-errant to keep no certain road) they left the choice of their route to the will and pleasure of Rozinante, which was always a rule to his master, as well as to the ass, that followed whithersoever he led, like a trusty friend and companion. In consequence, therefore, of his determination, they returned into the high-road, in which they travelled at random without any particular scheme.

While they thus jogged on, ‘Sir,’ said Sancho to his master, ‘I wish your worship would allow me to confer a little with you; for, since you imposed that severe command of silence upon me, divers things have perished in my stomach; and this moment I have somewhat at my tongue’s end, which I would not for the world have miscarry.’—‘Speak then,’ said Don Quixote, ‘and be concise in thy discourse; for nothing that is prolix can relish well.’—‘I say, Sir,’ answered Sancho, ‘that for some days past I have been considering how little is to be got and saved by going in quest of those adventures your worship hunts after, through these cross-paths and desarts, where, though you conquer and atchieve the most perilous exploits, there is nobody present to be witness of your prowess; so that it may remain in everlasting silence, contrary to the intention, and prejudicial to the merits of your worship; wherefore, in my opinion, with submission to your better judgment, our wisest course would be to go into the service of some emperor or great prince, who hath a war upon his hands, in whose service your worship may have occasion to shew your personal valour, your great strength, and greater understanding; which being perceived by the king we serve, he cannot chuse but reward each of us according to his deserts; neither will there be wanting some person to write the history of your worship’s exploits, for a perpetual memorial: I shall not mention my own, because they cannot exceed the bounds of a squire’s province; though this I will venture to say, that if it was customary in chivalry to recount the atchievements of our fraternity, I don’t think but mine might be inferred between the lines of the book.’

‘Thou art not much in the wrong,’ replied Don Quixote; ‘but before it comes to that issue, a knight must travel up and down the world as a probationer in quest of adventures, until by his repeated atchievements he shall have acquired a sufficient stock of fame; so that when he arrives at the court of some mighty monarch, he may be immediately known by his works. In that case, as soon as he shall be seen to enter the gates of the city, all the boys will surround and follow him, shouting and crying, “Behold the knight of the sun,” or the serpent, or of any other badge under which he hath performed his great exploits. “Behold,” they will say, “the man who vanquished in single combat the mighty giant Brocarbruno, and delivered the great Mamaluke of Persia from the strange inchantment that prevailed over him for the space of nine hundred years.” Thus shall they proceed, recounting his exploits from mouth to mouth; until, surprized at the noise of the children and populace, the king of that country shall appear at one of the palace-windows; and no sooner behold the knight, than knowing him immediately by his armour, or the device upon his shield, he will certainly exclaim, “So ho, there! let all the knights belonging to my court go forth and receive the flower of chivalry that comes yonder.”

‘At this command all of them will come out, and the king himself advance to meet him on the middle of the stair-case, where he will embrace him most affectionately, giving him the kiss of friendship and welcome; then taking him by the hand, will he conduct him to the queen’s closet, where he will find her majesty with the princess her daughter, who is one of the most beautiful and accomplished young ladies that ever was seen in the known world. In this interview she will immediately fix her eyes upon the knight, who at that instant shall be gazing at her, and each will appear to the other something supernatural; without knowing how or wherefore, they will find themselves presently caught and intangled in the inextricable net of love, and be infinitely concerned because they have no opportunity of conversing together, and of disclosing the reciprocal anxiety of their thoughts. After this audience, he will, doubtless, be carried to some apartment of the palace richly furnished, where, after they shall have taken off his armour, they will clothe him in a rich scarlet robe brought for the purpose; and if he made a fine appearance in armour, he will look infinitely more genteel in his doublet. At night he will sup at the same table with the king, queen, and infanta, upon whom he will fix his eyes as often as he can, without being perceived by the by-standers; while she will practise the same expedient with equal sagacity: for, as I have already observed, she must be a young lady of vast discretion.

‘The table being uncovered, there will enter at midnight through the hall-door, a little deformed dwarf, followed by a beautiful lady, guarded by two giants; and he will propose a certain adventure, contrived by a most ancient sage, which whosoever shall finish, will be deemed the most valiant knight in the whole world: then the king will order every warrior in waiting to attempt it; but all of them shall fail except the strange knight, who will perform and accomplish it very much to his own credit, as well as to the satisfaction of the princess, who will think herself extremely happy, and well requited, for having placed her affections so worthily. What is better still, this king or prince, or whatever he is, being at that time engaged in a most obstinate war with a potentate of equal strength, his guest, after having staid a few days at court, begs leave to go and serve him in the field; and the king granting his request with pleasure, the knight most politely kisses his hand for the great honour he hath done him; that same night he goes to take his leave of his mistress the infanta, through the rails of a garden adjoining to the chamber in which she lies; where they have already at different times enjoyed each other’s conversation, by the means of a damsel, who being the infanta’s confidante, is privy to the whole amour: on this occasion he will sigh most piteously, she will actually faint away; the damsel will run for water, and the knight will be extremely concerned, because the day begins to break, and he would not for the world be discovered to the prejudice of the lady’s reputation. In fine, the princess recovers, and reaches her fair hand through the rails to the knight, who kisses it a thousand times, and bathes it with his tears; then is concerted between them some method by which he is to inform her of his good or bad success, and the infanta intreats him to return as soon as possible: he swears solemnly to comply with her request, kisses her hand again, and bids her farewel with such affliction as well-nigh deprives him of life: from thence he retreats to his chamber, throws himself upon the bed, but cannot sleep, so grieved is he at parting; he rises early in the morning, goes to take leave of the king, queen, and infanta; their majesties accordingly bid him farewel, after having informed him that the princess is indisposed, and cannot see company; the knight imputing her disorder to her sorrow for his departure, is pierced to the soul, and well-nigh betrays his own anxiety. The confidante being present all the while, takes notice of every circumstance, which she imparts to her lady, who listens with tears in her eyes, and observes that nothing gives so much uneasiness as her ignorance of the knight’s pedigree, and her impatience to know whether or not he is of royal extraction: the damsel assures her, that so much politeness, gentility, and valour as he possessed, could never be united except in a dignified and royal disposition; the afflicted infanta consoles herself with this observation, and endeavouring to regain her serenity, that she may not give cause of suspicion to her parents, in two days appears again in publick.

‘The knight having set out for the army, comes to battle, overcomes the king’s adversary, takes many towns, makes divers conquests, returns to court, visits his mistress in the usual manner, and the affair being concerted between them, demands her in marriage, as the reward of his service; her father refuses to grant the boon, on pretence of not knowing who this hero is: but, nevertheless, either by stealth, or some other way, the infanta becomes his wife; and at last the king is overjoyed at his good fortune, when this knight proves to be the son of a valiant monarch of some unknown country, for I suppose it could not be found in the map. The father dies, the infanta succeeds, and in two words the knight becomes king; this, then, is the time to reward his squire, and all those who helped him to ascend the throne. The squire accordingly is married to a damsel belonging to the infanta, who doubtless must be she that was privy to her amour, and daughter of some powerful duke.’

‘This is what I want,’ cried Sancho, ‘and what with fair play I shall obtain; for all that you have mentioned will exactly happen to your worship, under the title of The Knight of the Rueful Countenance.’—‘Never doubt it, Sancho,’ replied Don Quixote; ‘for in the same manner, and by the same steps I have recounted, knights errant rise, and have risen to the rank of kings and emperors. Our only business now is to look out for some Christian or Pagan king who is at war, and hath a beautiful daughter; but there will be time to think of that, since, as I have already told thee, renown must be acquired elsewhere, before we repair to court; nay, another difficulty occurs, namely, that though we should find a king at war who has a beautiful daughter, after I shall have acquired incredible glory through the whole universe; I do not know how it can be proved that I am of royal extraction, or even second cousin to an emperor; and no king will grant his daughter to me in marriage, until he is first thoroughly satisfied in that particular, though my famous exploits should merit a much more valuable reward; wherefore, on account of this defect, I am afraid I shall lose that which the prowess of my arm may well deserve. True it is, I am a gentleman of an ancient and honourable family, not without property, possession, and a title to the revenge of the five hundred sueldos[65]; and it is not impossible, that the sage ordained to write my history, may furnish up my parentage and pedigree in such a manner, as to prove me descended in the fifteenth or sixteenth generation from a king; for I must tell thee, Sancho, there are two sorts of pedigree in the world; one that brings and derives its original from princes and monarchs, which time hath defaced by little and little, till at last it ends in a point like a pyramid; the other owes its beginning to people of mean degree, and increases gradually to nobility and power; so that the difference is, the one was once something, but is now nothing; and the other was once nothing, but is now something! perhaps, therefore, I may be one of the first mentioned division; and my origin, upon enquiry, be found high and mighty; a circumstance that ought to satisfy the king, who is to be my father-in-law; and if it should not have that effect, the infanta will be so enamoured of me, that in spite of her father, she will receive me as her lord and husband, even though she were certain of my being the son of a porter; but should she be shy, then is the time to carry her away by force, to any corner of the earth I shall chuse for my residence, until time or death shall put an end to the resentment of her parents.’

‘And here,’ cried Sancho, ‘nothing can be more pat to the purpose, than what some of your unconscionable fellows often say, “Who would beg a benison, that for the taking may have venison[66]?” though it would still be more proper, if they had said, “Better thieve than grieve[67].” This I observe, that in case the king, your worship’s father-in-law, should not prevail upon himself to give you the infanta his daughter, you may, as your worship says, steal and convey her off by main force; but the misfortune is, that while the peace is on the anvil, and before you come to the peaceable enjoyment of your kingdom, the poor squire may chew his cud in expectation of his recompense, unless that confidante damsel, who is to be his spouse, should make her escape with the princess, and be content to join her evil fortune to his, until such time as Heaven shall ordain it otherwise; for I believe his master may very safely give her away in lawful marriage.’—‘That thou mayest depend upon,’ said Don Quixote. ‘Since it is so, then,’ answered Sancho, ‘we have nothing to do but recommend ourselves to God, and let fortune take its own course.’—‘The Lord conduct it,’ replied the knight, ‘according to my desires and my necessity; and small be his grace, who counts himself base.’—‘A God’s name be it so,’ said Sancho; ‘for my own part I am an old Christian, and therefore fit to be a lord.’—‘Aye, to be greater than a lord,’ answered Don Quixote; ‘and even if thou wast not so well qualified, it would be of no signification[68], because I being king, can confer nobility upon thee, without putting thee to the expence of purchasing, or of subjecting thyself to any kind of servitude; for, in creating thee an earl, behold thou art a gentleman at once; and let people say what they will, in good faith, they must call thee your lordship, if it should make their hearts ache.’—‘And do you reckon that I should not know how to give authority to the portent?’ said the squire. ‘Patent, thou wouldst say, and not portent,’ replied the knight. ‘It may be so,’ answered Sancho; ‘but I insist upon it, that I should demean myself very decently; for once in my life-time I was beadle of a corporation, and the gown became me so well, that every body said I had the presence of a warden: then what shall I be when I am clothed in a ducal-robe, all glittering with pearls like a foreign count? Upon my conscience, I believe people will come a hundred leagues on purpose to see me.’—‘You will make a very good appearance,’ said Don Quixote; ‘but thou must take care to keep thy beard close shaved; for it is so thick, matted, and unseemly, that unless thou hast recourse to the razor, every second day at least, they will see what thou art a gun-shot off.’—‘What else have I to do,’ said the squire, ‘but to hire a barber, and keep him constantly in the house; and if I find occasion for it, even make him follow me as a master of the horse follows one of your grandees.’

‘How do’st thou know,’ said Don Quixote, ‘that our grandees are attended by their masters of horse?’—‘That you shall be satisfied in,’ answered the squire: ‘heretofore I was a whole month at court, where I saw a very little gentleman, who they told me was a very great lord, passing to and fro, and a man following him a horseback, turning ever and anon as he turned, as if he had been the nobleman’s own tail: when I asked why the man did not overtake the other, but always kept behind him; they answered, that he was his master of horse, and that it was a fashion among the great, for each to be attended by an officer of that name. Ever since that time I have remembered their office so distinctly, that I believe I shall never forget it.’—‘I think thou art much in the right,’ said Don Quixote, ‘in resolving to carry thy barber along with thee; for customs come not all together, because they were not invented all at once; therefore thou mayest be the first earl that ever went attended by a shaver; and truly it is an office of greater confidence to trim the beard than to saddle the horse.’—‘Leave that affair of the barber to my management,’ said Sancho, ‘and be it your care to make yourself a king, and me an earl, with all convenient speed.’—‘That shall be done,’ replied the knight; who lifting up his eyes, perceived that which shall be recounted in the succeeding chapter.

Footnote 64:

_Oregano_, in the original, signifies sweet marjoram; as if Sancho had wished his master might find a nosegay, rather than a bloody nose.

Footnote 65:

The Spaniards of old paid a tribute of five hundred sueldos, or pieces of coin, to the Moors, until they were delivered from this imposition by the gallantry of the gentlemen or people of rank, from which exploit a Castilian of family used to express the nobility and worth of his extraction, by saying he was of the revenge of the Sueldos.

Footnote 66:

Literally, ‘Never beg when you can take.’

Footnote 67:

In the original, ‘A snatch from behind a bush is better than the prayer of good men.’

Footnote 68:

This seems to have been intended as a stroke of satire against those princes who sell nobility to the highest bidder, without any regard to the merit of the purchaser.

CHAP. VIII. DON QUIXOTE SETS AT LIBERTY A NUMBER OF UNFORTUNATE PEOPLE, WHO, MUCH AGAINST THEIR WILLS, WERE GOING ON A JOURNEY THAT WAS NOT AT ALL TO THEIR LIKING.

Cid Hamet Benengeli, the Arabian and Manchegan author, recounts in this solemn, sublime, minute, pleasant, and fanciful history, that the conversation between the renowned Don Quixote, and his squire Sancho Panza, as related in the foregoing chapter, was no sooner concluded, than the knight lifting up his eyes, beheld upon the road before him about twelve men on foot, strung together like beads, with a great iron chain fastened to their necks, and he perceived shackles upon the arms of each. They were conducted by two men on horseback, and the like number on foot: the horsemen armed with firelocks, and the foot with javelins and swords. Sancho seeing them advance, ‘That,’ said he, ‘is the chain of slaves compelled by the king to work in the gallies.’—‘How, compelled!’ cried the knight; ‘is it possible the king compels people into his service?’—‘I don’t say so,’ answered Sancho; ‘those people are condemned for their crimes to serve in the king’s gallies on compulsion.’—‘In short,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘be that as it will, they go not voluntarily, but are driven by force.’—‘Certainly,’ said Sancho. ‘Since that is the case,’ resumed his master, ‘here the execution of my office is concerned, to annul force, and bring succour to the miserable.’—‘Pray, good your worship, take notice that justice, which is the king himself, never uses violence nor severity to such people, except as a punishment for their crimes.’

By this time the chain of galley-slaves being come up, Don Quixote, with much courtesy, desired the guards would be pleased to inform him of the cause or causes for which those people were treated in that manner: one of the horsemen replied, that they were slaves belonging to his majesty going to the gallies, and that was all he could say, or the enquirer had occasion to know of the matter. ‘Nevertheless,’ resumed the knight, ‘I am desirous of knowing from each in particular the occasion of his misfortune.’ To these be added other such courteous entreaties to induce them to satisfy his desire, that the other man on horseback said, ‘Though we have got along with us the register and certificate of the sentence of each of those malefactors, we have no time at present to take it out and give you the reading of it; but if you have a mind to go and question themselves, they will answer every thing you ask, to the best of their knowledge; for they are a set of miscreants, who delight in recounting as well as in acting their roguery.’

With this permission, which he would have taken if they had not granted it, Don Quixote approached the chain and asked of the foremost, for what offence he travelled in that equipage. ‘Only for being in love,’ answered the criminal. ‘For that only!’ replied the knight. ‘If they condemn people for being in love, I might have been tugging in the gallies long ago.’—‘But my love,’ answered the slave, ‘was quite different from what your worship imagines. I fell deeply in love with a basket crammed full of white linen, and locked it so fast in my embrace, that if justice had not tore it from my arms by force, I should not have quitted it willingly to this good hour: the thing being flagrant, there was no room for putting me to the torture, and therefore the cause was soon discussed; my shoulders were accommodated with a cool hundred, I was advised to divert myself three years in the gurapas, and so the business ended.’—‘Pray what are the gurapas?’ said Don Quixote. ‘The gurapas are the gallies,’ answered the thief; who was a young fellow, about twenty years of age, and said he was a native of Piedrahita.

The knight put the same question to the second, who seemed so overwhelmed with grief and melancholy, that he could not answer one word; but the first saved him the trouble, by saying, ‘This man, Sir, goes to the gallies for being a canary bird; I mean, for his skill in vocal musick.’—‘What!’ said the knight, ‘are people sentenced to the gallies for their skill in musick.’—‘Yes, Sir,’ answered the other, ‘for nothing is worse than to sing in the heart-ache.’—‘On the contrary,’ said Don Quixote, ‘I have always heard it observed, that musick and play will fright sorrow away.’—‘But here,’ replied the slave, ‘the case is quite different; for he that sings but once will have cause to weep for ever.’ Don Quixote saying he could not comprehend his meaning, one of the guards explained it. ‘Sir,’ said he, ‘to sing in the heart-ache, is a term used by these miscreants to express a criminal who confesses under the torture; and it hath been applied to that delinquent, he owned his crime, which was horse-stealing; accordingly, having received two hundred lashes he was condemned for six years to the gallies, and he appears always pensive and sad, because his brother-rogues who keep him company, continually maltreat, upbraid, despise, and scoff at him, for having confessed out of pure pusillanimity. “For,” say they, “No contains as many letters as Ay: an offender is very lucky, when his life or death depends upon his own tongue, and not upon the evidence of witnesses;” and truly I think they are not far mistaken.’

‘I am of the same opinion,’ said Don Quixote; and passing on, repeated his former question to the third, who, with great readiness and alacrity, answered, ‘I am going to pay a visit of five years to Lady Gurapa, for having wanted ten ducats.’—‘I will give twenty with all my soul,’ replied the knight, ‘to ease you of your misfortune.’—‘That,’ resumed the slave, ‘is like giving money to a man perishing with hunger at sea, where there is no food to be bought. I say this, because had I been master in time of those twenty ducats your worship now offers, I would have anointed the secretary’s pen, and quickened my lawyer’s invention with them, to so good purpose, that I should be now standing at liberty in the square of Zocodover in Toledo, and not dragging like a hound to the gallies; but Heaven is above—Patience and—that is enough.’

Don Quixote then advanced to the fourth, who was a man of a venerable aspect, with a long white beard hanging down to his girdle; and he no sooner heard the knight ask the cause of his being in that situation, than he began to weep bitterly, without answering one word; but the fifth criminal lent him his tongue, saying, ‘That honourable gentleman is going to the gallies for four years, after having made his publick appearance on horseback with great solemnity.’—‘That is, I suppose,’ said Sancho, ‘after having been exposed to publick shame[69].’—‘Even so,’ replied the slave, ‘and that punishment was inflicted upon him for being an ear-broker, or rather a broker for the whole body: to be plain with you, the gentleman was convicted of pimping, and giving himself out for a conjurer.’—‘Were it not for the addition of his conjuring scheme,’ said Don Quixote, ‘he is so far from deserving to row in the gallies for pure pimping, that it rather intitles him to the command of them[70], as general in chief; for if the office of a pander was well regulated, it would be a most honourable and necessary employment in a well-ordered commonwealth, reserved for people of birth and talents, and like the other places of trust, laid under the inspection of proper comptrollers, and limited to a certain number, like the brokers of merchandize: such a regulation would prevent many mischiefs, which are now occasioned by that employment’s being in the hands of idiots or simple wretches, such as silly women, pages, and buffoons, without either age or experience; who, upon the most urgent occasions, when there is need of the most important contrivance, let the morsel freeze between the dish and the mouth, and can scarce distinguish betwixt their right-hands and their left. I could proceed and advance many arguments to prove how advantageous it would be in a commonwealth to make proper distinctions in the choice of those who exercise such a necessary employment; but this is no place to settle that affair in; and one day I may chance to recommend it to the consideration of those who can both discern and provide a suitable remedy for this defect. I shall only at present observe, that the compassion I feel at sight of these grey hairs, and that venerable countenance in distress for having been a pander, is extinguished by the additional crime of sorcery; though I am well apprized there are no conjurers in the world, who can force or alter the will, as some weak minded people imagine: for the inclination is free, and not to be enslaved by any incantation whatsoever. The practice of some simple women, and knavish impostors, is to compose poisonous mixtures, to deprive people of their senses, under pretence of causing them to be beloved; it being a thing impossible, as I have said, to compel the will.’—‘What your honour says is very true,’ replied the good old man; ‘and really, Sir, as to the affair of conjuring, I am not guilty; though I cannot deny that I have been a pimp; but I never thought I was to blame in that capacity, because my whole intention was, that all the world should enjoy themselves, and live in peace and quiet without quarrels and anxiety. Yet the uprightness of my intention was of no service in preventing my being sent to a place from which I shall never return, oppressed as I am with years and a violent strangury, that will not allow me a moment’s rest.’ So saying, he began to weep again, as before; and his tears raised the pity of Sancho to such a degree, that he took a rial out of his bosom, and gave it in charity to the distressed senior.

Then Don Quixote addressed himself to the next, who answered his question, not with less, but infinitely more vivacity than that of the former; saying, ‘I trudge in this manner, for having jested a little extravagantly with two of my female cousins, and with two more, who, though not related to me, were in the same degree of blood to each other: in short, I jested with them so long, that in the end there was such an intricate increase of kindred as no casuist could unravel. Every thing was proved against me, I had neither interest nor money, and ran some risk of having my windpipe stopped; but they only condemned me for six years to the gallies; I submitted to the sentence, as the punishment of my crime: youth is on my side, life may be long, and time brings every thing to bear; if your worship, Sir knight, will part with any small matter for the comfort of poor wretches like us, God will requite you in heaven, and we upon earth will take care to petition him for long life and health to your worship, that you may be as happy as by your goodly appearance you deserve to be.’ The person who spoke in this manner appeared in the dress of a student, and one of the guards said he was a great orator and excellent Latin scholar.

After all these came a man of a good mien, about thirty years of age, who squinted so horribly, that his eyes seemed to look at each other: he was equipped in a very different manner from the rest; his foot being loaded with a huge chain that went round his whole body, and his neck adorned with two iron rings, to one of which the chain was fastened; and the other was called a keep-friend, or friend’s-foot; from which descended to his middle a couple of iron bolts fitted with a pair of manacles for his arms, secured by a large padlock, in such a fashion, as to hinder him from lifting up his hands to his mouth, and to disable him from bending his head to his hands. Don Quixote enquiring why that man was more fettered than all the rest, one of the guard answered, ‘Because he is a greater rogue than all the rest put together, and so daring a villain, that although he is shackled in that manner, we are under some apprehension that he will give us the slip.’—‘What crime has he committed,’ said the knight, ‘that deserves no greater punishment than that of going to the gallies?’—‘He goes for ten years,’ replied the guard, ‘which is a kind of civil death; but you need not enquire any farther, when you know that this honest gentleman is the famous Gines de Passamonte, alias Genisello de Parapilla.’—‘Softly, Mr. Commissary,’ said the slave, hearing these words, ‘don’t transmography names and sir-names in that manner. Gines is my name, and not Ginesello, and Passamonte the title of my family; not Parapilla, as your worship says: let every body turn about and look at home, and he will have business enough.’—‘Speak with less insolence, Mr. Thief above sterling,’ replied the commissary, ‘or else I shall make you hold your peace with a vengeance.’—‘It appears by this oppression,’ answered the galley-slave, ‘that God’s will must be done; but one day somebody shall know whether or not my name is Ginesello de Parapilla.’—‘An’t you called so, you lying vagabond?’ said the guard. ‘Yes, yes, I am so called,’ answered Gines; ‘but I will make them change that name, or their skins shall pay for it, if ever I meet them in a place I don’t chuse at present to name.—Sir knight, if you have any thing to bestow, pray let us have it, and the Lord be with you, for you only tire us with enquiring about other people’s affairs; if you want to be informed of my history, know, I am that Gines de Passamonte, whose life is written by these ten fingers.’

‘He tells nothing but the truth,’ said the commissary; ‘for he has actually written his own history, as well as could be desired, and pawned the manuscript in gaol for two hundred rials.’—‘Aye, and I shall redeem it,’ said Gines, ‘if it were for as many ducats.’—‘What! is it so entertaining?’ said Don Quixote. ‘Yes,’ answered Gines, ‘it is so entertaining, that woe be unto Lazarillo de Tormes, and all who have written or shall write in that manner. What I can affirm of mine is, that it contains truths, and such ingenious and savoury truths, as no fiction can equal.’—‘And what is the title of your book?’ said the knight. ‘The Life of Gines de Passamonte,’ replied the other. ‘Is it finished?’ said Don Quixote. ‘How can it be finished,’ answered the author, ‘when my natural life is not yet concluded? I have already written my whole history from my birth till the last time I was sent to the gallies.’—‘You have visited them before now then?’ said the knight. ‘For the service of God, and the good of my country, I have already served in them, during the space of four years, and know the difference between the biscuit and the bull’s pizzle,’ answered the thief; ‘and my journey to them now gives me no great pain, for there I shall have time to finish my book, and set down a great many things I have to say: there being spare time enough in the gallies of Spain for that purpose, which does not require much leisure, as I have every circumstance by heart.’—‘You seem to be an ingenious fellow,’ said Don Quixote. ‘And unfortunate,’ answered Gines; ‘for genius is always attended by evil fortune.’—‘Evil fortune ought to attend villains like you,’ said the guard. ‘I have already desired you, Mr. Commissary, to proceed fair and softly,’ answered Passamonte; ‘your superiors did not give you that rod to maltreat us poor wretches, but to conduct and carry us to the place of our destination, according to his majesty’s command: and by the life of—but ’tis no matter. The spots we received in the inn, may one day be rubbed out in washing. Mum’s the word. Let us live while we can, speak while we may, and at present pursue our journey; for this joke has already lasted too long.’

The commissary lifted up his rod, in order to give a proper reply to the threats of Passamonte; but Don Quixote interposing, begged he would not chastise him; because it was not to be wondered at, if one whose limbs were so shackled, should take such liberties with his tongue: then addressing himself to the prisoners, ‘From all that you have told me, dear brethren,’ said he, ‘I clearly perceive, that although you ought to be chastised for your crimes, the punishment you are going to suffer is not much to your liking; on the contrary, you make this journey very much against your inclination; and perhaps, the pusillanimity of one of you under the torture, this man’s want of money, and that others scarcity of friends, and last of all, the partiality of the judge, may have been the cause of your perdition, in depriving you of that justice your several cases entitled you to. Which consideration now operates within me, suggesting, persuading, and even compelling me to shew in your behalf, the end and aim for which Heaven sent me into this world, and made me profess the order of knight-errantry, by which I am bound by oath, to succour the needy and oppressed; but because I know, that one maxim of prudence is, not to do that by foul means which can be accomplished by fair, I beseech Mr. Commissary and the guards to unchain and let you depart in peace. The king will not want people to serve him on better occasions; and I think it is very hard to enslave those whom God and nature have made free. Besides, gentlemen soldiers,’ added the knight, ‘those poor people have committed no offence against you: and every body hath sins to answer for. There is a God in heaven, who will take care to chastise the wicked and reward the righteous: and it is not seemly, that honest men should be the executioners of their fellow-creatures, on account of matters with which they have no concern. This favour I entreat in a mild and peaceable manner; and if you grant my request, will thank you heartily: whereas, if you refuse to do quietly what I desire, this lance and sword, with the valour of my invincible arm, shall make you do it on compulsion.’

‘A fine joke, truly!’ replied the commissary; ‘he has brought his harangue to a very merry conclusion; desiring us to set at liberty the king’s prisoners, as if we had authority to grant, or he to demand, their discharge. I wish your worship would go about your business, and set to rights that bason on your skull, without going in quest of a cat with three feet.’—‘You are a cat, and a rat, and a scoundrel to boot!’ replied the knight, attacking him with such wonderful dispatch, that he had not time to put himself in a posture of defence, so was thrown from his horse, dangerously wounded by a thrust of the knight’s lance. And it happened luckily that this was one of the two who had firelocks. The rest of the guard were at first astonished and confounded at this unexpected assault; but they soon recollected themselves, and the horsemen drawing their swords, while those on foot handled their javelins, set upon Don Quixote in their turn, who waited for them with vast composure; and doubtless he would have fared ill, if the galley-slaves, seeing a fair occasion offered of gaining their liberty, had not made shift to obtain it, by breaking the chain with which they were fettered. Such was the confusion, that the guards, between their endeavours to detain the slaves that were unbound, and their efforts against Don Quixote who assaulted them, could do nothing at all effectual. Sancho, for his part, assisted in disengaging Gines de Passamonte, who being the first that leaped free and disencumbered on the plain, attacked the wounded commissary, and robbed him of his sword and musket, with which pointing at one, and taking aim at another, without firing, however, in a trice there was not one of the guards to be seen; for they made the best of their way, not only from Passamonte’s firelock, but also from the shower of stones which was rained upon them by the rest of the slaves, who had by this time disengaged themselves.

Sancho was infinitely grieved at this event, representing to himself, that those who fled would instantly give notice of the affair to the holy brotherhood, which, upon the tolling of a bell, would immediately sally forth in search of the delinquents. This supposition he suggested to his master, whom he entreated to depart forthwith, and conceal himself somewhere in the neighbouring mountain. ‘That may be a very good expedient,’ said the knight; ‘but I know what is proper for me to do at present.’ He then called to the slaves, who were all in confusion, and after they had plundered and stripped the commissary to the skin, they assembled round him in a circle in order to receive his commands, and he accosted them in this manner: ‘It is the duty of honest men to be thankful for benefits received: and one of the sins that gives the greatest offence to God, is ingratitude. This truth I observe, gentlemen, because you must be sensible, by manifest experience, of that which you have received from me; as an acknowledgment for which, it is my will and pleasure, that you set out immediately, loaded with that chain from which I have delivered your neck, and repairing to the city of Toboso; there present yourselves before the lady Dulcinea del Toboso, and tell her that her Knight of the Rueful Countenance hath sent you to her, with his hearty commendations. You shall also punctually recount to her every circumstance of this famous adventure, even to the granting you that liberty you so ardently wished for: and this duty being performed, you may go a God’s name whithersoever ye list.’

To this command Gines de Passamonte, in the name of all the rest, answered, ‘What your worship commands, most worthy deliverer, is of all impossibilities the most impossible to fulfil. For we must by no means travel in a body, but single and divided, and each by himself endeavour to abscond within the bowels of the earth, in order to avoid the holy brotherhood, which will doubtless come out in search of us. But your worship may, and it is but justice you should, change that service and tribute intended for my lady Dulcinea del Toboso, into a certain number of Ave maria’s and Credo’s, which we will say for your prosperity; and this is a duty we can fulfil by night as well as by day, in motion and at rest, and in peace as well as in war: but to suppose that we will now return to the flesh-pots of Egypt, I mean, to the carriage of our chain, and take the road to Toboso, is to suppose that it is now midnight, though it wants little more than two hours of noon; and indeed, to expect this condescension of us, is like expecting pears from an elm.’

‘Then, by heavens!’ said Don Quixote in a rage, ‘Don Son of a Whore, Don Ginesello de Parapilla, or whatsoever is thy name, you shall go alone, with your tail between your legs, and carry the whole chain upon your own shoulders.’ Passamonte, who was none of the most passive people in the world, having already smoaked the knight’s weak side, from the mad action he had committed in giving them their freedom, and finding himself treated by him in this haughty manner, tipped the wink to his companions; who retiring with him at a little distance, began to shower forth such a number of stones upon their deliverer, that he could not contrive how to cover himself with his shield; and poor Rozinante minded the spur no more than if he had been made of brass. Sancho retired behind his ass, which sheltered him from the storm of hail that descended on them both; but his master could not screen himself so well, as to avoid an infinite number of pebble-shot which took place upon different parts of his body, some of them with such force, that he came tumbling to the ground; and no sooner was he fallen, than the student set upon him, and snatching the bason from his head, made a most furious application of it to the knight’s shoulders, and then dashed it upon the ground with such force, that it went into a thousand pieces. They likewise stripped him of a jacket[71] he wore above his armour; and would even have taken his hose, had not his greaves been in the way: they plundered Sancho of his great coat, leaving him in his doublet and hose; and dividing the spoils of the battle among them, each took his own separate route, more anxious to escape the holy brotherhood, which they dreaded, than to load themselves with the chain again, and go to present themselves before the Lady Dulcinea del Toboso.

The ass and Rozinante, Sancho and Don Quixote, were the only persons remaining on the field. Dapple, with his head hanging down in a pensive attitude, and every now and then shaking his ears, as if he imagined the hurricane of stones that whizzed about them was not yet over; Rozinante lying stretched upon the ground, to which, like his master, he was humbled by a pebble: Sancho, in his doublet, terrified at the thoughts of the holy brotherhood; and Don Quixote excessively out of humour, at seeing himself so ill requited by those people whom he had served in such an essential manner.

Footnote 69:

A crime that is punished by the pillory in England, is in Spain expiated by the convict’s being mounted upon an ass, in a particular dress, and led through the streets by a crier, who proclaims the transgression.

Footnote 70:

This is a good hint for a reforming legislature.

Footnote 71:

It was the custom of knights to wear a coat of arms made of some rich stuff figured in a particular manner. The Duke of Brabant being called in a hurry to the battle of Agincourt, took a trumpeter’s banner, and making a hole through the middle, put it over his head, and wore it as his coat of arms.

CHAP. IX. OF WHAT BEFEL THE RENOWNED DON QUIXOTE IN THE BROWN MOUNTAIN; BEING ONE OF THE MOST SURPRIZING ADVENTURES WHICH IS RECOUNTED IN THIS TRUE HISTORY.

Don Quixote, finding himself so evil entreated, said to his squire, ‘I have always heard it observed, Sancho, that benefits conferred on base-minded people are like drops of water thrown into the sea. Had I taken thy advice, I might have avoided this vexation: but, now the affair is over, we must have recourse to patience, and take warning for the future.’—‘Yes,’ replied Sancho, ‘your worship will take warning as sure as I am a Turk; but, since you allow, that if you had taken my advice, you would have avoided this misfortune, take my advice now, and you avoid a greater still! for I give you notice, that all your errantry will stand you in little stead against the holy brotherhood, who don’t value all the knights-errant in the universe three farthings: and, in faith, this minute methinks I hear their arrows buzzing about my ears.’—‘Thou art naturally a coward, Sancho,’ said the knight; ‘but that thou mayest have no reason to say I am obstinate, and never follow thy counsel, for once thou shalt prevail; I will retreat from the danger thou dreadest so much; but it shall be on condition, that thou shalt never, either in life or death, hint to any person whatsoever, that I retired and avoided this peril through fear, but merely in compliance with thy earned request; for to say otherwise would be to propagate falsehood; and from this hour to that, and from that hour to this, I give thee the lye, and affirm thou lyest, and wilt lye as often as thou shalt say or think any such thing: make no reply, therefore; the very thought of my being supposed to abscond, or retreat from danger, especially from this, as it implies some sort of shadow of fear, inspires me with such courage, that here am I alone, ready to remain, and expect not only the holy brotherhood, which thou hast mentioned with fear and trembling, but also the brothers of the twelve tribes of Israel, those of the seven Maccabees, with Castor and Pollux, and all the brethren and brotherhoods in the universe.’—‘Sir,’ replied Sancho, ‘to retreat is not to fly; nor is it prudent to tarry when the danger overbalances the hope, and it is always the practice of wise people, to reserve something for to-morrow, without venturing all upon one cast; and you must know, that though I be a rustick and a clown, I have all my life-time had a small share of what is called good conduct; wherefore you need not repent of having taken my advice, but mount Rozinante, if you can; if not, I will lend you my assistance, and follow me; for this noddle of mine tells me, that, at present, we have more need of heels than of hands.’

Don Quixote accordingly mounted, without the least reply; and Sancho leading the way upon his ass, they took refuge in that part of the brown mountain which was nearest, the squire intending to go quite across to Viso or Almodavar del Campo, after they should have lurked for some days amongst the rocks, that they might not be found, in case the holy brotherhood should come in search of them: he was encouraged to this resolution, by seeing, that in the scuffle with the galley slaves, the provisions his ass carried had escaped untouched[72]; a circumstance that, in his opinion, amounted to a miracle, considering what the thieves had taken, and how narrowly they had searched.

That evening they arrived in the very heart of the Sierra Morena[73], where Sancho proposed to spend the night, and even to pass a few days, at least to stay as long as their store should last: accordingly they took up their lodging between two rocks in the midst of a great number of cork-trees; but fate, which, according to the opinion of those who do not enjoy the light of the true faith, guides, conducts, and disposes all things after its own way, ordained that Gines de Passamonte, that famous robber and cheat, who had been delivered from the chain by the valour and madness of Don Quixote; I say, fate ordained that he, impelled by the fear of the holy brotherhood, which he did not dread without good reason happened likewise to take refuge in those mountains; and even to be carried by this fear to the same place whither the same principle had directed Don Quixote and Sancho Panza, just time enough to know who they were, notwithstanding their being gone to sleep. As the wicked are always ungrateful, and necessity puts them to their shifts, and the present convenience overcomes the prospect of future quiet; Gines, who was neither grateful nor good-natured, resolved to steal Sancho’s ass, undervaluing Rozinante, as a subject that he could neither pawn nor sell: accordingly, while the squire was asleep, he stole Dapple; and, before morning, was gone far enough to elude all pursuit.

[Illustration: Sancho’s Ass Stolen As They Sleep.]

The appearance of Aurora that rejoices the earth, had a quite contrary effect upon Sancho Panza; who, missing his Dapple, and searching for him in vain, began to utter the most woeful lamentation that ever was heard; and Don Quixote, waked by the noise, heard him exclaiming in this manner: ‘O son of my bowels! born in my house, the play fellow of my children, the delight of my spouse, the envy of my neighbours, and comforter of my cares! in short, the half of my sustenance: for with six and twenty maravedis, which thou hast daily earned, did I defray one half of my family-expence!’ Don Quixote hearing this complaint, and being informed of the cause, consoled Sancho with all the arguments in his power; and, begging him to have patience, promised to give him a bill of exchange, on sight of which he should receive three asses out of five, which the knight had left at home. Sancho being comforted with this declaration, dried up his tears, moderated his sighs, and returned a thousand thanks to Don Quixote for his generosity. As they sauntered among the rocks, the knight’s heart was rejoiced to see places so well adapted to those adventures he was in quest of; for they recalled to his remembrance those wonderful events which had happened to knights-errant among such rocks and solitudes: he went on, musing on these subjects, and indeed so wrapped up and engrossed by them, that he minded nothing else; while Sancho’s only care, now that he thought he travelled in safety, was to satisfy his appetite with what remained of the spoils of the clergy; he therefore jogged on leisurely after his master, sitting side-ways on his ass[74], and replenishing his own bags out of that which contained the provision; and while he was thus employed, would not have given a farthing for the best adventure that could happen.

Chancing, however, to lift up his eyes, he perceived his master had stopped, and was endeavouring, with the point of his lance to raise some bundle that lay upon the ground; he therefore hastened up to him, in order to lend his assistance, should it be found necessary; and arrived just as the knight had turned up with his lance, a pillion with a portmanteau fixed to it, all rotted and consumed by the weather; but so heavy, that Sancho was obliged to alight, in order to take them up. His master having ordered him to examine the contents of the portmanteau, he obeyed with great alacrity, and though it was shut with a chain and padlock, there were so many holes in it, that he soon reached the inside, where he found four shirts of fine holland, with other provision of linen, equally fashionable and clean, together with a pretty large heap of crowns of gold, wrapped up in a rag; which he no sooner perceived, than he cried in a rapture, ‘Blessed be Heaven for granting us one advantageous adventure!’ then continuing his search, he found a pocket-book richly garnished, which Don Quixote desired to have, bidding him keep the money for his own use. Sancho kissed his hand for the favour, and taking the linen out of the portmanteau, crammed it into the bag that held their provision.

The knight having considered the whole affair, ‘Sancho,’ said he, ‘I am of opinion, and I cannot possibly be mistaken, that some bewildered traveller, in his passage over these mountains, has been set upon by robbers, who having slain him, must have dragged his body to be buried in this unfrequented place.’—‘That cannot be the case,’ answered the squire; ‘for if they had been robbers, they would not have left the money behind them.’—‘Thou art in the right,’ said Don Quixote; ‘and I cannot guess nor conceive what the matter can have been. Let us see if there be any thing written in this pocket-book, by which we may trace out and come to the certainty of what we want to know.’ He opened it accordingly, and the first thing he found was the rough draught, though very legible, of a sonnet, which he read aloud for the benefit of Sancho, in these words.

I.

Love either cruel is or blind; Or still unequal to the cause, Is this distemper of the mind, That with infernal torture gnaws.

II.

But Love’s a god, and cruelty In heavenly breasts can never dwell: Then say by what authority, I’m doom’d to feel the pains of hell?

III.

Of all my sufferings and my woe, Is Chloe then the fatal source? Sure ill from good can never flow, Nor so much beauty gild a curse.

IV.

With hopeless misery weigh’d down, I’ll seek for quiet in the grave; For when the malady’s unknown, A miracle alone can save.

‘From such rhyme,’ said Sancho, ‘there is no information to be got, unless by that Clue we could come to the bottom of the affair[75].’—‘What clue dost thou mean?’ said the knight. ‘The Clue your worship mentioned just now in the sonnet,’ answered the squire. ‘I mentioned no clue,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘but Chloe, which is without doubt the name of the lady of whom the author of these verses complains; and really he must have been a very ingenious poet, or else I know very little of the art.’—‘Then your worship understands crambo?’ said the squire. ‘Better than you imagine,’ answered the knight, ‘as you will see when you carry from me a letter to my mistress Dulcinea del Toboso, written in verse from top to bottom; for thou must know, Sancho, that all, or the greatest part of the knights-errant who lived in former ages, were very much addicted to poetry and musick; these two qualities, or rather gifts of nature, being annexed to all errants in love; though the truth is, their couplets were rather sprightly than elegant.’—‘I wish your worship would read on,’ said Sancho; ‘perhaps you may find something more to our satisfaction.’ Accordingly the knight having turned over the leaf, ‘Here is prose,’ said he; ‘and seems to be a letter.’ Sancho asking if it was upon business, his master replied, ‘In the beginning there was nothing but love.’—‘Pray, Sir,’ cried Sancho, ‘read it aloud; for I am highly delighted with matters of love.’—‘With all my heart,’ answered Don Quixote; who raising his voice, in compliance with the squire’s request, read what follows.

‘Thy false promises, together with the certainty of my misfortune, have exiled me to a corner of the world, from whence thou wilt hear an account of my death, before this my complaint shall reach thine ears. Thou hast cast me off, ungrateful as thou art, in favour of one who, though he is richer, is not a more deserving lover than me: for if virtue were the wealth that is most esteemed, I should have no cause to envy the happiness of others, or to bewail my own mishap. What thy beauty had raised, thy behaviour has overthrown: by the first I mistook thee for an angel; by the last I discovered thee to be a woman. Mayest thou live in peace, fair authoress of my misfortunes; and Heaven grant that the deceit of thy husband may never be disclosed, that thou mayest never repent of what thou hast done, nor I enjoy the revenge I do not desire!’

Don Quixote having read this letter, observed that nothing else could be inferred either from it, or the verses, but that the author was some despairing lover. Then perusing the rest of the book, he found more verses and letters, some legible, and others not intelligible; but the substance of them all was composed of complaints, lamentations, suspicions, desires, disgusts, favours, and disdain, some of which were extolled, and others deplored. While Don Quixote examined the book, Sancho rummaged the portmanteau, without leaving a corner in that of the pillion which he did not search, pry into, and overhaul; no seam was left unripped, no lock of wool unpicked, that nothing might be lost through negligence and want of care; so much was his cupidity awakened, by finding the money, which amounted to more than a hundred crowns; and though he reaped no other fruit from his industry, he thought himself abundantly requited for his capers in the blanket, his vomit of the balsam, the benediction of the pack-staves, the fisty-cuffs of the carrier, the loss of his bags, the robbery of his great coat, with all the hunger, thirst, and fatigue he had undergone in the service of his worthy master, who had made him more than amends by his generous present of this windfall.

The knight of the rueful countenance was impatient to know the owner of the portmanteau; conjecturing by the sonnet, the letter, the gold, and the fine linen, that he must be some lover of quality, whom the disdain and barbarity of his mistress had driven to some desperate end: but, as in that uninhabited and rocky place, there was nobody who could give him the information he wanted, he resolved to penetrate still farther into the mountain, without taking any other road than what Rozinante should chuse for his own conveniency, still confident of meeting with some strange adventure among these briars and brambles.

As he went on, entertaining himself with these reflections, he perceived upon the top of a hill right before him, a man skipping from bush to bush, and rock to rock, with wonderful agility; his body seemed naked, his beard black and bushy, his hair long and matted, his feet unshod, his legs bare, and his thighs covered with breeches, which to all appearance were of crimson, but so ragged, that his skin appeared through many different holes, while his head was without any sort of covering. Notwithstanding the nimbleness with which he passed, all these minute circumstances were seen and remarked by the knight of the rueful countenance, who in vain attempted to follow him; those rough roads being quite unpassable by the feeble Rozinante, who was naturally phlegmatick and tender-footed. However, Don Quixote concluded that this must be the owner of the pillion and portmanteau, and determined within himself to find him out, although he should travel a whole year through the mountains for that very purpose. With this view he ordered Sancho to alight, and take a short cut over one part of the mountain, while he should go round the other; and by this expedient they might come up with the man who had so suddenly vanished from their sight. ‘That proposal I can by no means comply with,’ answered the squire; ‘for if I stir but an inch from your worship, fear instantly lays hold on me, and assaults me in a thousand horrid shapes and visions; and let this serve to apprize you, that henceforward, I will not budge a finger’s breadth from your presence.’—‘Be it so,’ said he of the rueful countenance; ‘and I am very glad that thou canst avail thyself of my courage, which shall never fail thee, even if thy soul should fail thy body; follow me, therefore, step by step, or at thy own leisure; and use thine eyes like two spy glasses; we will take a compass round this little mountain, and perhaps we may meet again with that man, who is certainly no other than the owner of what we found.’ To this observation Sancho replied, ‘Methinks we may save ourselves that trouble; for if, upon finding him, he should prove to be the owner of the money, I must of course make restitution; therefore we had better spare all this fruitless search; and keep it _bona fide_, until the true owner appear of himself, without all this intricate enquiry: and before that happens, perhaps I shall have spent the whole, and then I shall be discharged by law.’—‘In that notion thou art mistaken, Sancho,’ resumed the knight; ‘for as we have already good grounds to believe he is the owner, it is our duty to find him out, and restore what we have taken; and though we should not find him, the strong reason we have to believe that it belongs to him will make us equally guilty in detaining it, as we should be if it really did. Wherefore, friend Sancho, do not give thyself any uneasiness about the enquiry; because if we find him, I shall be freed from a great deal of anxiety.’ So saying, he put spurs to Rozinante, and Sancho followed him in his usual manner. Having surrounded part of the mountain, they found in a brook that watered the foot of it, a dead mule saddled and bridled, and half consumed by the dogs and crows; another circumstance which confirmed them in the opinion, that he who fled from them was master both of the mule and portmanteau.

While they were looking at this object, they heard a shepherd’s whistle, and presently on the left appeared a good number of goats, and behind them, on the top of the mountain, they descried the goatherd, who seemed to be a man in years. Don Quixote calling aloud, entreated him to come down; and he, in the same tone, asked what had brought them to that place, which was seldom trodden, except by the feet of goats, wolves, and other wild beasts that harboured thereabouts? Sancho bade him come down, and they would tell him what had brought them thither; upon which the goatherd descended, and coming up to Don Quixote, ‘I will wager,’ said he, ‘that you are looking at the hireling mule, which lies dead in that bottom, where in good sooth it hath lain full six months. Pray, have you met with its master?’—‘We have met with nothing,’ answered the knight, ‘but a pillion and portmanteau, which we found not far from hence.’—‘I have often seen the same things,’ replied the goatherd, ‘but would never touch nor go near them, being afraid of some misfortune, or of being questioned for theft; for the devil is very cunning, and raises blocks under our feet, over which we stumble, and very often fall, without knowing how or wherefore.’—‘That is the very thing I say,’ answered Sancho, ‘though I saw them also, I would not go within a stone’s throw of them; there I left them, and there they remain as they were; for I don’t chuse to steal a dog with a collar about his neck[76].’—‘Pr’ythee, honest friend,’ said Quixote, ‘dost thou know who the owner of these things is?’—‘All that I can say of the matter,’ answered the goatherd, ‘is, that it may be about six months, more or less, since there came to our hut, which is about three leagues from hence, a very genteel young man of a comely appearance, riding upon that very mule that now lies dead, with the same pillion and portmanteau which you say you found. He asked what part of the mountain was the most woody and concealed, and we told him, that it was this very spot where we now are; and it is so, for if you go half a league farther into the mountain, you will perhaps find it a very difficult matter to return: and I marvel much how you have got so far, for there is neither high-road nor by-path that leads to this place. But as I was saying, the young man hearing our reply, turned his mule, and rode towards the place to which we had directed him, leaving us all very much pleased with his appearance, though not a little surprized at his question, and the speed with which we saw him ride back, into the heart of the mountain: from that time we saw no more of him, till a few days after; when he sprung upon one of our shepherds on the road; and, without saying why or wherefore, beat and bruised him unmercifully; after which he went to the sumpter ass, and carrying off all the bread and cheese that was on his back, with surprizing nimbleness, ran back again to the thicket. As soon as we understood this particular, several of us goatherds went in search of him, through the most wild and unfrequented part of the mountain, for the space of two days, at the end of which we found him lying in the hollow of a large cork-tree. He came out to us in a very civil manner, with his cloaths all torn, and his face so tanned and disfigured by the sun, that we should scarce have known him, had not his cloaths, tattered as they were, which we had before taken particular notice of, assured us that he was the person we went in search of. He saluted us very courteously, and in a few words, though very well chosen, bade us not wonder at seeing him in that condition; for he was obliged in that manner to do penance, which had been enjoined him, on account of his manifold sins and transgressions. We earnestly begged to know who he was; but that he never could be prevailed upon to tell: we desired him also, whenever he should have occasion for food, without which he could not live, to tell us where we should find him, and we would bring it to him with great care and affection; or if that was not to his liking, we desired him to ask it civilly, without taking it by force. He thanked us kindly for our tenders of service, begged pardon for the assaults he had committed, and promised for the future, to ask it for God’s sake, without giving offence to any person whatsoever. With regard to the place of his habitation, he said, he had no other than that which chance presented every night when it grew dark; and concluded his discourse with such piteous lamentation, that our hearts must have been made of flint, if we could have heard it without shedding tears, considering the woeful change he had undergone since we saw him at first: for as I have already observed, he was a genteel, comely youth, and by his courteous and polite discourse, shewed himself to be a person of good birth and excellent breeding; and though we who heard him were only home-bred country people, the gentility of his carriage was easily perceived by our clownish ignorance. In the midst of this conversation that passed between him and us, he grew silent all of a sudden, and nailed, as it were, his eyes to the ground, for a considerable space of time, during which we remained in suspense and no small concern, to see the effect of this stupefaction; for by his staring at the ground for a good while, without moving his eye-lids, then shutting them close and biting his lips, and then drawing up the skin of his forehead, we could easily perceive that he was seized with some fit of madness; and he soon confirmed the truth of our opinion, for he sprung up with surprizing force from the ground on which he had thrown himself, and attacked the person who was next to him with such rage and resolution, that if we had not taken him off, he would have beaten and bit him to death; crying aloud all the time, “Ha, treacherous Fernando! now shalt thou pay for the injury thou hast done me. These hands shall tear out thy heart, in which all kinds of wickedness, particularly fraud and deceit, are harboured and dwell!” To these he added other expressions, tending to reproach that Fernando with treachery and baseness. When we had got our friend out of his clutches, with no small trouble, he went off without speaking another word, and ran at full speed among these shrubs and brambles, so as that it was impossible for us to follow him. From these things we conjectured that his madness came upon him by fits, and that some person of the name of Fernando must have done him some deadly wrong, which hath driven him to distraction. Indeed, this conjecture has been since confirmed by his different behaviour on divers occasions, when he hath met with our shepherds, from whom he hath sometimes begged part of their provision, and at other times hath taken it by force; for when the fit of lunacy is upon him, though they offer it of their own free will, he will not accept of it peaceably, without coming to blows; but when he is in his right senses, he begs it for God’s sake, in a very courteous and civil manner, and returns many thanks for the favour, accompanied with abundance of tears. And truly, gentlemen,’ added the goatherd, ‘I and four more country lads, two of them my own servants, and the other two friends of mine, yesterday resolved to go in search of him, and after having found him, to carry him, either by force or fair means, to the city of Almodavar, which is about eight leagues from hence, and there have him cured, if he be curable; or learn of him, when he is in his senses, who he is, or whether or not he has any relations to whom we may give an account of his misfortune. This, gentlemen, is all I can say, in answer to the questions you asked; and you may take it for granted, that the owner of the goods you found, is the very same person whom you saw skip about half-naked, with such agility:’ for Don Quixote had said that they had seen a man in that condition, leaping from rock to rock.

The knight was very much surprized at this information of the goatherd, which making him still more impatient to know who this unfortunate lunatick was, he determined with himself to put his former design in execution, and go in quest of him, through the whole mountain, without leaving a cave or corner unsearched until he should find him. But accident was more his friend on this occasion than he could either imagine or expect; for at that instant, the young man of himself appeared in the cleft of a rock hard by the place where they stood; and came towards them, muttering something to himself, which they could not have understood had he been near, much less as he was at some distance from them. His equipage was just as it has been described; but, as he approached, Don Quixote perceived that his buff doublet, though torn to rags, still retained the perfume: from whence he concluded, that the person who wore such dress, could not be a man of the lowest rank. When he came up, he saluted them very politely, though with a hoarse, mistuned voice; and the salutation was returned with no less courtesy by Don Quixote, who alighting from Rozinante, with genteel and graceful deportment, went and embraced the stranger, whom he strained within his arms a good while, as if he had been a very old acquaintance. The other, who might have been called the tatterdemalion of the distracted, as Don Quixote was stiled the knight of the rueful countenance, after having submitted to this embrace, stepped back, and laying his hands on the shoulders of the knight, stood looking attentively in his face, in order to recollect him; no less astonished, perhaps, at the figure, mien, and armour of Don Quixote, than this last was surprized at his forlorn appearance. At length, the first who broke silence after the embrace, was the ragged youth, who spoke what you may read in the following chapter.

Footnote 72:

This is an oversight of the author, who seems to have forgot that Sancho lost his wallet at the inn, and was robbed by the galley-slaves of the great coat or cloak, in which he carried the remains of that provision he had taken from those who attended the dead body towards Segovia.

Footnote 73:

A chain of dusky mountains that divide Castile from Andalusia.

Footnote 74:

Here Cervantes hath been caught napping by the criticks; who observe, that Sancho could not be mounted on the ass, which was but just now stolen by Gines de Passamonte.

Footnote 75:

As it is impossible to preserve the original blunders of Sancho, who mistakes Fili or Phillis, for Hilo, that signifies a thread, we are obliged to substitute another, by changing Phillis into Chloe, which Sancho, in English, might have as naturally mistaken for a clue; and by this expedient the sense of the passage is not hurt, and but very little altered.

Footnote 76:

Methinks it is inconsistent with the character of the knight, to allow Sancho to tell such a fraudulent untruth in his hearing; nor is Panza’s behaviour on this occasion much for the honour of his simplicity.

CHAP. X. THE CONTINUATION OF THE ADVENTURE IN THE SIERRA MORENA.

The history relates, that Don Quixote listened with vast attention to the shabby knight of the mountain, who began the conversation thus: ‘Assuredly, Signior, though I have not the honour to know who you are, I thank you heartily for those expressions of kindness with which you treat me; and wish I were in such a situation as would enable me to repay this courteous reception with something more than mere good-will: but my hapless fortune affords me nothing to offer in return for the civilities that are shewn me, except a hearty inclination to make a more adequate satisfaction.’—‘My will and desire,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘to serve you is so strong, that I was determined not to quit these mountains until I had found you, and learned of yourself whether or not the grief you manifest in this strange course of life, could be alleviated by any kind of remedy, for which, had need required, I would have searched with all possible diligence; and had your misfortune been such as shut up all the avenues to advice and redress, I was resolved to join your lamentations, and bemoan your misery to the utmost of my power: for, in all misfortunes, the greatest consolation is a sympathizing friend; and if this my friendly intention deserves the least return of civility, I entreat you, Signior, by that courtesy which I see you so eminently possess, and moreover conjure you by that object, which of all others in this life you have most loved, or are most in love with, to tell me who you are, and inform me of the cause that brings you to live and die in this solitude, like the brute beasts among which you dwell, so different from that rank and situation to which your appearance and person declare you are entitled. And I swear by the order of chivalry which I have received, unworthy sinner that I am! and by the profession of a knight-errant, that if you comply with this my request, I will serve you with that earnestness which my duty obliges me to express; either in remedying your mishap, if it admits of remedy, or in condoling with you, as I have already promised.’ The knight of the wood, hearing him of the rueful countenance talk in this manner, could do nothing for some time but gaze, and stare, and survey him from head to foot; at length, having examined him thoroughly, he said, ‘If you have got any food, for God’s sake spare me a little; and after I shall have eaten it, I will do as you desire, in return for the civility you now shew me.’

Sancho immediately pulled from his bag, and the goatherd from his scrip, some victuals to appease the hunger of the tatterdemalion, who swallowed what they gave him like a frantick person, with such hurry, that he left not the interval of an instant between one mouthful and another, but seemed to devour rather than eat, without either speaking or being spoke to by the spectators. His repast being ended, he beckoned them to follow, and conducted them to a verdant spot of grass, at the turning of a rock, a little way from the place where they were; and sitting down on the green turf, they followed his example; not a word being spoke all the time, until the ragged knight, after having adjusted himself in his seat, began in this manner. ‘If you desire, gentlemen, that I should, in a few words, inform you of the immensity of my misfortunes, you must give me your promise that you will not by any question, or otherwise, interrupt the thread of my doleful story; for if you should, that instant I will break off the narration.’ This warning recalled to the knight’s memory the story recounted by his squire, which still remained unfinished, because he had not kept an exact account of the goats, as they passed the river. But, to return to the tattered knight: ‘I give you this precaution,’ added he, ‘because I would briefly pass over the detail of my misfortunes, the remembrance of which brings fresh addition to my woe; and the fewer questions you ask, the sooner shall I have finished the relation; although, in order to satisfy your curiosity to the full, I will not fail to mention every material circumstance.’ Don Quixote promised, in behalf of himself and the company, to avoid all manner of interruption; and the stranger, thus assured, began in these words:

[Illustration: The Tattered Gentleman Tells His Tale.]

‘My name is Cardenio, the place of my nativity one of the best cities in this province of Andalusia, my family noble, my parents rich, and my misfortunes so great, that no doubt they have been lamented by them, and even felt through my whole kindred, though all their wealth would not alleviate my woe; for the goods of fortune are but of little service against those ills inflicted by the hand of Heaven. In the same country lived, shall I call her, a paradise, which love had adorned with all the charms I could desire to possess; such was the beauty of Lucinda, a young lady as well-born and rich as I, though more fortunate and endowed with less constancy than what was due to my honourable intentions. This Lucinda did I admire, love, and adore, even from my most tender years; and she made me all the returns of love and inclination that I could expect from her infant age. Our parents were not ignorant of our mutual affection, which gave them no offence, because they foresaw that if it should increase with our years, it could have no other issue than marriage; an union which the equality of our age and fortune seemed to point out. Meanwhile, our passion growing up with our age, Lucinda’s father thought himself obliged to forbid me his house, imitating in that particular, the parents of Thisbe, whom the poets have celebrated so much. This prohibition added flame to flame, and wish to wish, for though our tongues were restrained, they could not silence our pens, which commonly express the sentiments of the heart with more liberty, because the presence of the beloved object often confounds the most determined intention, and puts to silence the most undaunted tongue.

‘Good Heaven! what letters did I write! what chaste endearing answers did I receive! what songs did I compose, inspired by love that displayed the soul unmasked, inflamed each soft desire, regaled the fancy, and indulged the wish! in fine, my patience being exhausted, and my heart almost consumed with the desire of seeing her, I resolved to execute the scheme which seemed most favourable for my love and pretensions; and this I put in practice, by demanding her in marriage of her father, who thanked me for the honour I intended him, by this proposal of marrying into his family; but said, as my own father was alive, it was properly his business to make the demand; for, unless his consent and inclination were obtained, Lucinda was not a person either to be given or taken in marriage by stealth. I thanked him in my turn, for his politeness; and thinking there was a great deal of reason in what he said, assured myself that my father would readily agree to the proposal whenever I should make it. I therefore flew instantly to disclose my sentiments to him on that subject; and entering the closet where he was, found him reading a letter, which, before I could speak a syllable, he put into my hands saying, “By this letter, Cardenio, you will see how much Duke Ricardo is inclined to do you service.” This Duke Ricardo, as you must know, gentlemen, is a grandee of Spain, whose estate lies in the best part of this province. I took and read this letter, which was so extremely kind, that I myself should have blamed my father, had he refused to comply with what he requested in it: this was to send me immediately to this house, he being desirous that I should live as the companion, not the servant, of the eldest son; and he would take care of my fortune in such a manner as should manifest the esteem he had for me. Having read the letter, I was struck dumb at knowing the contents; especially when I heard my father pronounce, “Two days hence, Cardenio, you shall set out, according to the pleasure of the duke; and you ought to thank God for having opened an avenue, through which you may arrive at that fortune I know you deserve.” To this declaration he added other services, as became a prudent father; and I, the night before I departed, finding means to speak with Lucinda, told her what had happened; nay, I even imparted it to her father, entreating him to wait a few days, without disposing of her to any other, until I should know in what manner Ricardo wanted to employ me. He gave me his promise accordingly, and she confirmed it by a thousand vows and anxious sighs.

‘I at length arrived at the seat of Duke Ricardo, by whom I was so well received and kindly entertained, that Envy presently began to do her office, possessing the old servants with the opinion, that every expression of favour I received from the duke was prejudicial to their interest. But he who was most rejoiced at my residing there, was the duke’s second son, Fernando, a gay, genteel, liberal, and amorous youth, who in a short time was pleased to honour me with such intimacy of friendship as became the subject of every body’s discourse; and though the eldest brother loved and favoured me also, he did not carry his favour and affection to such a pitch. Now, as all secrets are communicated between friends, and the confidence in which I lived with Fernando was soon changed into friendship, he imparted to me his most secret thoughts, and among other things, a love affair that gave him a good deal of disquiet. In short, he had an inclination for a country-maid, who was his father’s vassal; her parents were very rich, and she herself so beautiful, reserved, modest and discreet, that nobody who knew her could determine in which of these qualifications she most excelled. These accomplishments of this fair maiden inflamed the desires of Don Fernando to such a pitch, that he resolved, as the easiest conquest over her virtue, to promise he would marry her; for he found it impossible to gratify his wish in any other way. I, prompted and bound by my friendship, endeavoured to dissuade and divert him from his purpose, by the strongest arguments and most lively examples I could produce; but finding them all ineffectual, I resolved to communicate the whole affair to his father Duke Ricardo.

‘Don Fernando, having abundance of cunning and discernment, suspected my intention; and was afraid, that the obligation he saw I was under, as a faithful servant, would not allow me to conceal an affair so prejudicial to the honour of the duke my master; he therefore, in order to divert and deceive me, observed that he could find no better remedy to remove the beauty that enslaved him from his remembrance, than that of absence for a few months; and therefore desired that we should go to my father’s house, upon pretence, as he would tell the duke, of seeing and purchasing some fine horses in our town, which produces the best in the world. Scarce had he uttered this proposal, when prompted by my love, exclusive of his prudent intention, I approved of it, as one of the best concerted schemes that could be imagined; and was rejoiced at meeting with such a fair conjuncture and occasion of returning to my dear Lucinda. Induced by this motive and desire, I applauded his pretence, and enforced his proposal, advising him to execute his plan with all speed; for absence would certainly do its office, in spite of the most established inclination. At that very time, as I afterwards understood, he had enjoyed the country-maid, under the title of her husband, and waited for an opportunity of owning it with safety to himself, being afraid of the duke’s resentment, in case he should discover his folly. It happened afterwards, that as love in young people is, for the most part, nothing but appetite, whose only aim is pleasure, and this being enjoyed, what seemed love vanishes, because it cannot exceed the bounds of nature; whereas real love is bounded by no such limits: I say, as soon as Don Fernando enjoyed the country girl, his desires were appeased, and his raptures abated; and if at first he pretended to seek a cure for them in absence, he now earnestly desired to be absent, that he might avoid any farther gratification.

‘The duke having given him leave, and ordered me to attend him, we arrived at our habitation, where he was received by my father in a manner suitable to his rank and family. I went instantly to visit Lucinda, whose presence in a moment rekindled all my desires, which indeed were neither dead nor decayed within me: and, to my infinite misfortune, I made Don Fernando acquainted with my love, because I thought, by the laws of that intimate friendship with which he honoured me, I ought to conceal nothing from him. I therefore praised the beauty, grace, and discretion of Lucinda, in such a manner, as excited his curiosity to see such an accomplished young lady. Prompted by my evil genius, I gratified his desire, shewing her to him one night by the light of a taper at the window from which I used to converse with her. At sight of her he absolutely forgot all the beauties he had formerly seen; he was struck dumb with wonder; he seemed to lose all sense, became absent and pensive; and in short, enamoured of her to that degree, which you will perceive in the course of my unhappy story: and the more to inflame his desire, which he concealed from me, and disclosed to Heaven alone, he happened one day to find a letter which she had written, desiring me to ask her in marriage of her father, so prudent, modest, and tender, that upon perusing it, he said, “In Lucinda alone are concentered all the charms of beauty and understanding, which are divided among the rest of her sex.” True it is, and I will now confess it, and although I knew how justly Fernando applauded Lucinda, I was vexed at hearing these praises proceed from his mouth, and began to dread and suspect his inclination; for he was eternally talking of her, and always turned the discourse upon her, even when he was obliged to bring her in by the head and shoulders; a circumstance that waked a sort of jealousy within me; not that I imagined ought could alter the faith and affection of Lucinda; yet, notwithstanding, my destiny made me dread the very thing that confidence insured. Don Fernando always contrived means to read the letters I sent to Lucinda, together with her answers, on pretence of being highly pleased with the good sense they contained; and it once happened, that she having desired me to send her a book of knight-errantry, in which she took great delight, called Amadis de Gaul——’

Don Quixote no sooner heard him mention this book, than he said, ‘Had you told me in the beginning of your story, that your mistress Lucinda was an admirer of books of chivalry, you would have had no occasion to use any other argument to convince me of her sublime understanding; which I should not have deemed quite so extraordinary as you have represented it, had she wanted relish for that sort of reading: wherefore you need not spend any more words with me, in extolling her beauty, virtue, and good sense; for, upon the knowledge of her taste only, I pronounce her to be the most beautiful and discreet lady in the universe. I wish, however, that you had sent along with Amadis de Gaul, the worthy Don Rugel of Greece; for I know your mistress Lucinda would have been greatly pleased with Darayra and Garaya, together with the judicious sayings of the shepherd Darinel, and those admirable verses of his eclogues, sung and represented by him with such grace, spirit, and discretion; but the time will come when that omission may be rectified; indeed, the fault may be repaired as soon as you shall please to accompany me to the place of my habitation, where I can supply you with more than three hundred books, which are the feast of my soul, and entertainment of my life; though now I recollect, not one of them remains in my possession; thanks to the malice of wicked and envious inchanters. But I hope you will be so good as to forgive me for having contradicted my promise of not interrupting your story; for when the subject turns upon chivalry or knights-errant, I can no more forbear interposing, than the rays of the sun can cease to warm, or those of the moon to wet: but I ask pardon; pray proceed with your story; for that is most to the purpose at present.’

While Don Quixote was talking in this manner, Cardenio hung his head, and fell into a profound reverie; and though the knight repeated his request, would neither lift up his head, nor answer one word. At length, after a long pause, looking up, ‘You cannot,’ said he, ‘beat it out of my thoughts; nor is there any person upon earth, who can persuade me to the contrary; and he must be a blockhead, who imagines or believes otherwise, than that the villain Master Elisabat carried on a criminal correspondence with Queen Madasima.’—‘By Heaven, ’tis false,’ cried Don Quixote, with great indignation and impetuosity, as usual; ‘that report is the effect of malice, or rather mere wantonness. Queen Madasima was a most royal dame, and it is not to be presumed, that a princess of her rank would confer favours upon a mere quack doctor. Whosoever thinks otherwise, lyes like a very great scoundrel; and I will prove him such either on horseback or a foot, armed or disarmed, by night or by day, as will most suit his inclination.’ Cardenio stood all the while looking attentively at him, and being by this time seized with the paroxism of his madness, could not proceed with his story; neither, if he had proceeded, would Don Quixote have listened to it, for he was offended at what he had heard to the prejudice of Queen Madasima[77], whose reputation interested him as much as if she had been actually his own mistress: such wonderful impression had those profane books made on his imagination!

I say, then, Cardenio being by this time under the influence of his distraction, and hearing himself called lyar and scoundrel, with other terms of reproach, could not relish the joke; but, snatching up a large pebble that lay near him, aimed it so successfully at Don Quixote’s breast, that he fell fairly on his back with the blow. Sancho Panza, seeing his master treated in this manner, attacked the madman with his clenched fist; but the lunatick received him with such a blow, as knocked him down to the ground at once, and then getting upon him, mauled his carcase to his heart’s content; while the goatherd, who attempted to defend him, met with the same fate. Having thus mastered and pummelled them all round, he left off, and with great composure retreated to the thickets from whence he came. Sancho then arose; and, enraged to find himself handled in this manner for nothing, ran to take vengeance on the goatherd, saying that he was to blame for the whole, because he had not informed him, that the man had intervals of madness; which had they known, they might have guarded against them. The goatherd affirmed, that he had apprized them of what might happen; and if they had not heard him, it was no fault of his. The squire replied; the goatherd retorted; and, in conclusion, they went by the ears together, and pulled each other’s beards with such fury, that there would not have been a single hair left on either chin, had not Don Quixote interposed. Sancho, grappling stoutly with his adversary, cried, ‘Give me leave, Sir Knight of the Rueful Countenance; this is no armed knight, but a plebeian like myself, of whom I can securely take satisfaction for the injury he has done me, by fighting with him hand to hand, like a man of honour.’—‘True,’ said Don Quixote; ‘but the cause of what hath happened, cannot be justly imputed to him.’ Peace accordingly ensued, and the knight asked the goatherd again, if there was a possibility of finding Cardenio; for he was extremely desirous of hearing the conclusion of his story. The goatherd repeated what he had said before, that he did not certainly know whereabouts he resided; but, if they should stay long in these parts, they could not fail of finding him either mad or sober.

Footnote 77:

Queen Madasima, a lady in Amadis de Gaul, attended by one Elisabat, a surgeon with whom she travels, and lies in woods and desarts.

CHAP. XI. OF THE STRANGE ADVENTURES THAT HAPPENED TO THE VALIANT KNIGHT OF LA MANCHA IN THE SIERRA MORENA, WHERE HE DID PENANCE, IN IMITATION OF BELTENEBROS.

Don Quixote, having taken leave of the goatherd, and mounted Rozinante again, commanded Sancho to follow him; and the squire, bestriding his ass, obeyed with great reluctance. As they advanced at leisure, into the most rocky part of the mountain, Sancho longed to death for an opportunity of talking, and waited impatiently till his master should begin, that he might not transgress his orders; but, being utterly unable to keep silence any longer, ‘Sir Don Quixote,’ said he, ‘be pleased to give me your blessing, and grant me leave to return immediately to my wife and children, with whom, at least, I can talk and prattle my fill; for in commanding me to travel with you, through these desarts, night and day, without opening my lips when I am disposed to speak, your worship buries me alive; if it were the will of Heaven, that beasts spoke as they did in the days of Hyssop, I should be the less uneasy, because I would converse with my ass at pleasure; and that would be some comfort to me in my misfortunes; but it is a very hard case, and what I cannot bear with patience, to travel in search of adventures all my life, and find nought but rib-roastings, blankettings, robberies, and fisty-cuffs; and, after all, be obliged to sew up our mouths, without daring to bring up what lies upon our stomachs, more than if we were dumb.’

‘I understand thee, Sancho,’ replied the knight; ‘thou art impatient until I take off the interdiction I have laid upon thy tongue. I take it off, then; say what you please, on condition that this repeal shall last no longer than our stay in this mountain.’—‘Be it so,’ said Sancho; ‘to-day I will speak, to-morrow God’s will be done; and the first use I make of this safe conduct, is to ask why your worship was in such a passion about that Queen Magimasa, or how d’ye call her; or of what signification was it to you, whether that same Abat was her sweetheart or not? Had your worship overlooked that circumstance, that you had no concern in, I firmly believe the madman would, have gone on with his story, and you would have saved yourself the pebble-shot, with more than half a dozen kicks and cuffs.’

‘In faith, Sancho,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘If thou knewest, as I do, what an honourable and princely lady that Queen Madasima was, thou wouldst say, I had great patience in forbearing to demolish the mouth from whence such blasphemy proceeded; for sure, ’tis no less to say, or even think, that a queen should take a surgeon to her bed. The truth of the story is, that Master Elisabat, whom the lunatick mentioned, was a man of prudence and discernment, and served the queen in quality of tutor and physician; but to suppose that there was any indecent familiarity between them, is a piece of folly that deserves to be severely chastised: and to convince thee that Cardenio knew not what he said, thou mayest remember he was deprived of his senses, when he took notice of that circumstance.’—‘This I’ll venture to say,’ replied the squire, ‘that the words of a madman are not to be minded; for, if fortune had not stood your worship’s friend, and directed to your breast the pebble that was aimed at your head, we should have been in a fine condition, for your having quarrelled about that lady, whom Heaven confound! you may depend upon it, Cardenio would have been acquitted on account of his madness.’

‘Every knight-errant,’ said Don Quixote, ‘is obliged to quarrel with those who are out of their senses, as well as those who are in them, if they asperse the honour of women, whatsoever they might be. How much more, then, in behalf of princesses of such high quality and accomplishments as adorned Queen Madasima, for whom I have a particular affection, on account of her admirable qualifications; for, over and above her beauty, she had a great share of prudence and resignation in her calamities, which were manifold: and the advice and company of Master Elisabat were of great service in encouraging her to bear her afflictions with patience and equanimity. From hence, the ignorant and malicious vulgar took occasion to say and suppose, that she admitted of his caresses; but they lye. I say again, all those who either say or think so, lye in their throats, and I will tell them so two hundred times over.’—‘As for my own part,’ said Sancho, ‘I neither say nor think any such thing; those that do may dine upon it: if they were too familiar, by this time they have answered for it to God. I prune my own vine, and know nothing about thine. I never meddle with other people’s concerns. He that buys and denies, his own purse belyes, as the saying is. Bare I was born, and bare I remain; and if I lose nothing, as little I gain. If he did lie with her, that is no matter of mine. Many people hunt the hare without ever finding the scut; for, Till you hedge in the sky, the starlings will fly. And evil tongues will not refrain from God himself.’

‘Good Heaven,’ cried Don Quixote, ‘what fooleries art thou stringing together, Sancho? Pray, what relation have these old saws to the subject of our conversation? I charge thee to hold thy peace, and henceforth entertain thyself with spurring up thy ass, and leave off talking of things which do not concern thee: or let thy whole five senses be convinced, that every thing I have done, am doing, or will do, is highly reasonable, and in exact conformity with the laws of chivalry, which I understand better than any knight that ever professed the order.’—‘Yes Sir,’ replied Sancho, ‘to be sure it is an excellent law of chivalry, to stroll about bewildered in these mountains, where there is neither high road nor bye path, in search of a madman, who, after we have found him, will perhaps take it in his head to finish what he left undone; not of his story, but of your worship’s pate and my ribs, which he may chance to break in a thousand shivers.’

‘I say again, Sancho,’ resumed the knight, ‘hold thy peace; for I would have thee know, that I am not detained in this place, so much by the desire of finding the lunatick, as of performing in it an exploit by which I shall acquire everlasting renown throughout the whole known world; and put the stamp of perfection upon the wonderful efforts of knight-errantry?’—‘And will this exploit be attended with much danger?’ said Sancho. ‘No,’ answered he of the rueful countenance, ‘though the dice may run so as to produce bad instead of good fortune; but the whole will depend upon thy diligence.’—‘Upon my diligence!’ cried the squire. ‘Without doubt,’ answered his master; ‘for, if thou wilt return speedily, from the place to which thou must be sent, my affliction will soon be at an end, and my glory will speedily begin: and, that I may no longer keep thee in suspence about the meaning of my words, know, Sancho, that the celebrated Amadis de Gaul was one of the most perfect knights-errant; one of them, said I? he alone was the only, single, chief, and superior of all his cotemporaries. Contempt and shame upon Bellianis, and all those who say he equalled him in any one particular; for, by this light, they are all egregiously deceived! I say, moreover, when a painter desires to become famous in his art, he endeavours to imitate the originals painted by the most noted artists; and the same maxim holds in every other science and exercise that adorns a commonwealth: therefore, he who wants to attain the virtues of prudence and equanimity, must endeavour to imitate the character of Ulysses, in whose person and sufferings Homer has drawn an excellent picture of wisdom and patience, as Virgil, in the person of Æneas, represents the piety of an affectionate son, and the sagacity of a wise and valiant general; not that they are described and set forth exactly as they were, but as they ought to have been, as examples of virtue to posterity. In the same manner, Amadis shone like the north-star, the Lucifer and sun of all valiant and amorous knights; and therefore must be imitated as a pattern, by all those who serve under the banners of love and chivalry. Now, this being the case, friend Sancho, I find that the knight-errant who approaches the nearest to this great original, will bid fairest for attaining the perfection of chivalry: and one of the circumstances in which that knight gave the highest proofs of his worth, prudence, valour, patience, constancy, and love, was his retiring to the poor rock, when he was in disgrace with his mistress Oriana, there to do penance under the feigned name Beltenebros[78]; an appellation certainly very significant and proper to the way of life he had voluntarily chosen. As it is therefore more easy for me to imitate him in this than in cleaving giants, beheading serpents, slaying dragons, overthrowing armies, scattering navies, and dissolving inchantments; and as this solitude is so well adapted to such designs, I am resolved to seize occasion by the forelock, which she now so complaisantly presents.’

‘In reality,’ said Sancho, ‘what is your worship resolved to do in this remote place?’—‘Have I not already told thee,’ replied the knight, ‘that I am determined to imitate Amadis, in acting the desperado, the lunatick, the madman: to copy also after the valiant Don Roldan, when he discovered, in a fountain, certain marks by which he was convinced that Angelica the fair had committed uncleanness with Medoro. A piece of information attended with such grief and anxiety, that he ran mad, tore up the trees by the root, sullied the waters of the transparent springs, slew shepherds, destroyed flocks, set fire to cottages, demolished houses, dragged mares along the ground, and performed a thousand other insolent feats worthy to be inserted in Fame’s eternal record; and because I do not propose to imitate Roldan, or Orlando, or Rotolando, for he went by all these names, literally in all the extravagancies he thought, said, and did, I will copy his outlines as well as I can, in the most essential parts of his character; nay, perhaps, I may content myself with the sole imitation of Amadis, who, by his tears and sighs alone, acquired as much fame as the other with all the mischief he did.’—‘If I apprehend the matter aright,’ said Sancho, ‘the knights who played such mad pranks were provoked, and had some reason to act these fooleries and penance: but what cause hath your worship to turn madman? With what lady are you in disgrace? or by what signs are you given to understand that the Lady Dulcinea del Toboso has been playing the rogue either with Moor or Christian!’—‘This is the point,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘and refinement of my design; a knight who turns madman, because he cannot help it, can claim no merit from his misfortune; but the great matter is to run distracted without cause, and give my lady reason to conceive what I could do were I moistened, when I can do so much being dry. More especially, as I have sufficient cause in the long absence to which I am doomed by my ever-darling mistress Dulcinea del Toboso; for, according to the words of the shepherd Matias Ambrosio, which thou mayest have heard,

“In absence of my charming fair, “I suffer all those ills I fear.”

‘Wherefore, friend Sancho, you need not throw away your time unprofitably, in advising me to refrain from an imitation at once so admirable, rare, and happy: mad I am, and mad I shall be until thou returnest with the answer of a letter which I propose to send by thee to my Lady Dulcinea; and if it be such as I am entitled to by my love and fidelity, my distraction and penance will end; but, should it be otherwise, I shall run mad in earnest, and consequently be insensible of my misfortune: wherefore, let her answer be as it may, it will extricate me from the doubts and affliction in which thou leaved me; because, if it be favourable, I shall enjoy it in my right senses; and if it be unfavourable, my frenzy will not feel it.

‘But tell me, Sancho, hast thou taken care of Mambrino’s helmet, which I saw thee take up, after that ungrateful vagabond endeavoured in vain to break it in pieces; a circumstance that proves the excellency of its temper?’ To this exclamation, Sancho replied, ‘’Fore God! Sir Knight of the Rueful Countenance, I cannot suffer, nor bear with patience, some things which your worship says; for they make me imagine, that all you have mentioned about chivalry, and acquiring kingdoms and empires, and giving away islands, with other favours and presents, according to the practice of knights-errant, is nothing but puffs of falshood, and the mere effect of piction or fiction, or what do you call it: for who that hears your worship call a barber’s bason the helmet of Mambrino, and sees you continue in that error so many days, but will believe, that he who affirms such nonsense must be very much crazed in his understanding? The bason, which is all bruised and battered, I have put up in my bag, in order to be mended at home, and used for the service of my own beard, if ever, by the grace of God, I come to see my wife and family.’—‘Hark ye, Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, ‘by the same oath you swore, I swear again, that thou hast the most slender understanding that any squire in this world does or ever did possess! Is it possible, that after all thy travelling in my company, thou art not convinced that every thing belonging to knights-errant, appears chimera, folly, and distraction, being metamorphosed into the reverse of what it is, by the power of a tribe of inchanters who attend us, changing, converting, and restoring each particular, according to their pleasure, and the inclination they have to favour or annoy us: for which reason, what seems a barber’s bason to thee, I can easily discern to be the helmet of Mambrino, and perhaps to a third, it will assume a quite different appearance; and I cannot but admire the providence of the sage who is my friend, in making that which is really and truly Mambrino’s helmet, appear a bason to the rest of mankind, because it is of such inestimable value, that if it was known, the whole world would combine to ravish it from me; but as it appears to them no more than a barber’s bason, they never attempt to obtain it. This was plainly the case with the villain, who, having endeavoured to break it in pieces, left it on the ground, when he went off; whereas, had he known what it was, in good faith he would not have quitted it so easily. Keep it therefore with care, my friend, for at present there is no occasion for it; on the contrary, I shall strip off all my armour, and remain naked as I was born, in case I be inclined to imitate the penance of Roldan, rather than that of Amadis.’

Conversing in this manner, they arrived at the foot of a high mountain that stood alone, as if it had been cut out from the rest that surrounded it. A gentle rill murmured by the skirts of it, winding along a meadow, so green and fertile, that it ravished the spectator’s eye; while a number of forest trees that grew around, together with some delicious herbs and flowers, conspired to make the place inchanting. This was the scene in which the knight of the rueful countenance chose to do penance; and therefore he no sooner perceived it, than he began to exclaim aloud, as if he had actually lost his senses, ‘This is the spot, ye heavens! which I chuse and appoint my residence, while I bewail that misfortune to which you yourselves have reduced me. This is the place where the tears from these eyes will increase the waters of that little brook; and where my profound and uninterrupted sighs will incessantly move the leaves of these mountain-oaks, in witness and testimony of the pangs which my tormented heart endures. O ye rural deities, whosoever ye are, who take up your mansion in this uninhabited place, give ear to the complaints of an unhappy lover, whom a tedious absence and imaginary doubts have brought to lament among these craggy hills, and bemoan the cruel disposition of that ungrateful fair, who is the end and perfection of all human beauty? O ye nymphs and dryads, who were wont to inhabit the hills and groves, (so may no nimble and lascivious satyrs, by whom you are beloved, though loved in vain, disturb your sweet repose) help me to bewail my mishap: or at least disdain not to hear my moan!—O Dulcinea del Toboso! light of my darkness! glory of my affliction! north-star of my inclinations! and planet of my fortune! as Heaven shall pour upon you the blessings which you ask; consider the place and condition to which your absence hath exiled me, and put such a period to my woe, as my fidelity shall seem to deserve! O ye solitary trees, who henceforth are to bear me company in this retreat, convince me, by the gentle waving of your boughs, that my presence gives you no disgust.—And thou, my squire, the agreeable companion of my good and evil fortune, faithfully retain in thy remembrance what thou shalt see me do, that thou mayest recount and rehearse every circumstance to the lovely cause of all my distraction!’ So saying, he alighted; and, taking off the bridle and saddle from Rozinante, gave him a slap on the buttocks, pronouncing these words: ‘He who is a slave himself, bestows freedom upon thee, O steed, as excellent in thy qualities as unlucky in thy fate! go wheresoever thou wilt; thou bearest engraven on thy forehead, that thou wast never equalled in swiftness, either by Astolpho’s Hypogriff, or the renowned Frontino that cost Bradamante so dear.’

Sancho, hearing this apostrophe, ‘My blessing,’ cried he, ‘be upon him whose industry now saves us the trouble of taking the halter from the head of Dapple[79], who, in good faith, should not want slaps on the buttocks, nor abundance of fine things said in his praise; but, if he was here, I would not consent to his being turned loose, there being no reason for so doing; for he was never acquainted with love and despair, no more than I, who was his master, while it pleased God I should be so: and truly, Sir Knight of the Rueful Countenance, if this departure of mine, and distraction of your worship, are really to take place, you had better saddle Rozinante again, to supply the want of Dapple; by which means a great deal of time will be saved in my going and coming; whereas, if I make the journey on foot, I know not when it will be performed; for, in short, I am a very sorry walker.’—‘I say, be it so, then, Sancho,’ answered Don Quixote: ‘I approve of thy proposal; and assure thee, that thou shalt set out in three days, during which I would have thee take notice of what I shall do for her sake, that thou mayest be able to give her a full account of my behaviour.’—‘What more can I see,’ said Sancho, ‘than I have seen already?’—‘You are pretty perfect in your story,’ answered the knight; ‘but, as yet, I have not torn my cloaths, scattered my armour, and dashed my head against the rocks, nor performed many other things of this sort, which thou wilt behold with admiration.’—‘For the love of God, Sir!’ cried Sancho, ‘take care how you dash your head against the rocks; for you may chance to meet with such a one as will, at the first push, put the finishing stroke to this whole scheme of penance; and I should think, that as knocks of the head are absolutely necessary to compleat the work, your worship might content yourself, seeing the whole affair is a sham, a counterfeit, and a joke; I say, your worship might content yourself with ramming your skull against water, or some soft thing, like a cotton bag; and leave it to my care to tell my lady, that your worship went to loggerheads with the point of a rock a thousand times harder than adamant.’—‘Friend Sancho,’ replied the knight, ‘I am obliged to thee, for thy kind intention; but, thou must know, that what I do is not a sham, but a very serious matter; for, to behave otherwise, were to transgress the orders of chivalry, which forbid us to lye, under pain of being degraded; and you know, that to substitute one thing instead of another, is downright telling a lye: wherefore, my knocks on the head must be real, hard, and effectual, and not sophisticated or imaginary; and it will be necessary to leave me some lint for my wounds, since it was the will of fate that we should lose the balsam.’

‘It was a much greater misfortune,’ said the squire, ‘to lose the ass, and with him the lint and all; but I beseech your worship, not to talk of that accursed drench, the sole mention of which not only turns my stomach, but even my very soul; and I beseech you, moreover, to suppose we have passed those three days, which you have appointed for shewing me your mad pranks; for I take them all for granted, and will tell wonders of them to my lady. Write the letter, therefore, and dispatch me forthwith: because I am impatient till I return and deliver your worship from that purgatory in which I leave you.’—‘Purgatory! call you it, Sancho?’ replied Don Quixote: ‘it rather deserves the name of hell, or something worse, if worse can be.’—‘I have heard,’ said the squire, ‘that from hell there is no retention.’—‘I know not,’ replied the knight, ‘what you mean by retention.’—‘Retention,’ answered Sancho, ‘signifies, that whosoever goeth to hell, neither will nor can come back again. The contrary of which shall happen to your worship, or my feet will misgive me, provided I carry spurs to quicken Rozinante: and set me once face to face before my Lady Dulcinea, at Toboso, I will tell her such stories of the folly and madness, for they are both the same thing, which your worship has committed, and will then be committing, that though I should find her harder than a cork-tree, I will make her as pliant as a glove; and, with her sweet and honied answer, return through the air, like a witch, and deliver your worship from this purgatory, that appears like hell, though it be not really so, because there are some hopes of getting out of it; whereas those who are actually in hell can have no such expectation; and I dare say, your worship will not advance any thing to the contrary.’

‘That is all very true,’ said he of the rueful countenance; ‘but how shall we make shift to write this letter?’—‘Aye, and the bill for the colts?’ added Sancho. ‘That shall be inserted in the letter,’ answered his master; ‘and I think, as there is no paper to be had in this place, the best thing we can do, will be to write in the manner of the ancients, on the leaf of a tree, or on waxen tables; though, I believe, those will be as difficult to be found as the paper. But, now I remember what will do well, and excellently well, for our purpose: I will write it in the pocket-book which belonged to Cardenio, and thou shalt take care to have it fairly transcribed in the first place where thou canst find a school-master or a parish-clerk to copy it. But, by no means employ a scrivener, who way write it in such an unintelligible court-hand, that Satan himself could not understand it.’—‘But what is to be done about the signing of it?’ said Sancho. ‘Love-letters are never signed,’ replied Don Quixote. ‘True,’ resumed the squire; ‘but all bills must be subscribed: and if this of yours were to be copied, they would say the subscription was counterfeit, and I might go whistle for my colts.’—‘The bill shall be subscribed with my own hand in the pocket-book; which my niece shall no sooner see, than she will comply with the order, without any farther objection: and with regard to the letter, instead of my subscription, thou shalt cause to be inserted, “Yours, till death; the Knight of the Rueful Countenance.” And though it be written by another hand, it is of small importance, because, now I remember, Dulcinea can neither read nor write, nor ever set eyes on any writing or letter of mine: for our mutual love has been altogether platonick, without extending farther than a modest glance; and even that so seldom, that I can safely swear, in twelve years, during which I have loved her more than the light of these eyes, which will one day be closed in dust, I have not seen her more than four times, and even in these four times, perhaps, she hath not perceived me looking at her more than once. Such is the restraint and reserve in which her father Lorenzo Corchuelo, and her mother Aldonza Nogales, have brought her up!’

‘Ah, ha!’ cried Sancho, ‘is the daughter of Lorenzo Corchuelo, whose other name is Aldonza Lorenza, the same with the Lady Dulcinea?’—‘Yes,’ answered the knight; ‘and she deserves to be lady of the whole universe.’—‘I know her perfectly well,’ said Sancho; ‘and this will venture to say in her behalf, that she will pitch the bar as well as e’er a lusty young fellow in the village. Bless the sender! she is a strapper, tall, and hale wind and limb; and can lift out of the mire any squire or knight errant, who shall chuse her for his sweetheart. Ah! the whore’s chick! what a pair of lungs and voice has she got! I heard her one day halloo from the belfray to some young fellows of her acquaintance, who were at work in a corn-field of her father’s; and, though it was at the distance of half a league, they heard her as plain as if they had been right under the steeple; and what is better still, she is not at all coy, but behaves herself civilly; and jokes and romps, and plays the rogue with any body. Now, Sir Knight of the Rueful Countenance, I say that your worship not only has cause to run mad for her, but even to despair and hang yourself, and I am sure nobody that heard it, but would say you had done extremely well; even though the devil should run away with you; and truly, I wish I were now upon my way, merely to see her; for I have not beheld her these many days: and, surely, she must be greatly altered; for the sun and weather does very much damage to the face of a woman who is always at work in the field. To tell you the truth, Sir Don Quixote, I have hitherto lived in great ignorance with respect to my Lady Dulcinea, whom I verily believed to be some princess, that your worship was in love with; or a person of such rank as to deserve the rich presents you sent to her; namely, the Biscayan and galley-slaves, with many others whom you conquered in the course of your numberless victories, both before and since I have been your squire, But, when one considers the affair, what benefits can my Lady Aldonza Lorenzo—I mean, my Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, reap from your worship’s sending, or having sent those whom you overcome in battle, to fall upon their knees before her? especially as they might chance to come at a time when she is busy, carding flax and threshing corn; in which case, they would be ashamed to see her, and she laugh and be out of humour at their arrival.’—‘I have frequently observed before now, Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, ‘that thou art an everlasting babbler; and, though of a shallow understanding, thy bluntness borders often on severity; but, to convince thee of thy own ignorance and my discretion, thou shalt give ear to a short story which I will relate.

‘Know, then, that once upon a time a certain handsome widow, young, free, wealthy, and, above all, good-humoured, fell in love with a thick, squat, brawny, lay-brother, belonging to a neighbouring convent; the superior of which being informed of the affair, said to the widow, one day, by way of brotherly reproof, “I am amazed, Madam, and not without cause, that a lady of your rank, beauty, and fortune, should bestow your affection upon such a low, simple, clownish fellow; when there are so many masters, graduates, and divines, in the convent, among whom your ladyship may chuse, as one picks pears, saying, ‘This I like, that I loath.’” The lady answered, with great freedom and vivacity, “Signior, you are very much deceived, and very old-fashioned in your opinion, if you think I have made a bad choice in that fellow who seems so simple: for, in that particular which I admire, he is as much of a philosopher, nay, more than Aristotle himself.” In like manner, Sancho, Dulcinea del Toboso is as proper for my occasions as the highest princess upon earth. All the poets, who have celebrated ladies, under names which they invented at pleasure, had not really such mistresses as they describe. Dost thou imagine, that all the Amaryllis’s, Silvia’s, Phillis’s, Diana’s, Galatea’s, Alida’s, and other names so often met with in romances, poems, barbers shops, and on the stage, actually belonging to ladies of flesh and blood, who were adored by those who sing, and have sung their praises? No, surely; but, on the contrary, are, for the most part, feigned and adopted as the subjects of verse, that the poets may be thought men of amorous and gallant dispositions. Wherefore, let it suffice, that I imagine and believe the worthy Aldonza Lorenzo to be beautiful and modest: and, as to her pedigree, it is a matter of small importance; there is no necessity for taking information on that head, as if she were to be invested with some order of knighthood; and I take it for granted, that she is the noblest princess in the universe; for, thou must know, Sancho, if it be a thing of which thou art ignorant, that the two qualities, which, above all others, inspire love, are beauty and reputation: and these two is Dulcinea in consummate possession of; for in beauty she excels all women, and is equalled by very few in point of reputation. And, to conclude, I imagine that all I have said is true, without exaggeration or diminution. I paint her in my fancy according to my wish, as well in beauty as in rank; unexcelled by Helen, unrivalled by Lucretia, or any other heroine of ages past, whether Grecian, Roman, or Barbarian; and let people say what they will, if I am blamed by the ignorant, I shall be acquitted by the most rigid of those who are proper judges of the case.’—‘I say,’ answered Sancho, ‘that your worship is very much in the right, and I am no better than an ass: but I know not why I should mention the word ass; for one ought not to talk of halters in the house of a man who was hanged. But give me the letter, and farewel till I return.’

Don Quixote pulled out the memorandum-book, and, stepping aside, with great composure, began to write the letter; which, when he had finished, he called to Sancho, saying he wanted to read it to him, that he might retain it in his memory, in case he should lose it by the way; for every thing was to be feared from his evil fortune. ‘Your worship,’ answered Sancho, ‘may write it down two or three times in the book, and I will take special care to convey it safely; but it is folly to suppose that I can retain it in my memory, which is so bad, that I have many a time forgot my own name; but, notwithstanding, pray, Sir, read it to me; I shall be hugely rejoiced to hear it; for it must certainly be curiously penned.’—‘Listen then, and I will read it,’ said Don Quixote; who began as follows.

Don Quixote’s Letter to Dulcinea del Toboso.

‘SOVEREIGN AND SUBLIME PRINCESS,

‘He who is wounded by the edge of absence, and whose heart is stuck full of the darts of affliction, most divine Dulcinea del Toboso! wishes thee that health which he is not doomed to enjoy. If I am scorned by thy beauty, if thy virtue affords me no relief, if thy disdain compleats my misfortune; albeit, I am inured to suffering, I can ill support the misery I bear; which hath not only been excessive, but also of long duration. My trusty squire Sancho will give thee an ample relation, O ungrateful beauty and lovely foe! of the situation in which I remain on thy account: if it be thy will to succour me, I am thy slave: if not, use thy pleasure; for the end of my life will satisfy thy cruelty and my desire. Thine till death,

‘THE KNIGHT OF THE RUEFUL COUNTENANCE.’

‘By my father’s soul!’ cried Sancho, ‘this is the highest thing I ever heard. Odds-niggers! how your worship writes whatsoever you please, and how curiously you conclude, “The Knight of the Rueful Countenance.” I verily believe your worship is the devil himself, and knows every thing.’—‘All that knowledge,’ replied the knight, ‘is necessary for the employment I profess.’—‘Why, then,’ said the squire, ‘be so good as to write on the other leaf the order for the three colts, and be sure to subscribe distinctly, that when it is presented, your hand-writing may be known.’—‘With all my heart!’ said Don Quixote, who having written the order, read it aloud in these terms.

‘DEAR NIECE,

‘Please deliver to Sancho Panza, my squire, or order, at sight of this my first bill of colts, three of the five which I left at home in your custody; which three colts I order you to pay, in return for the like number received of him: and this bill, together with his receipt, shall be a sufficient acquittance to you.

‘Given in the heart of the brown mountain, the twentieth and second of August, this present year.’

Sancho liked the form, and desired his master to sign it. ‘There is no occasion for my signing it,’ said Don Quixote, ‘with any thing but my cypher, which is sufficient not only for three, but three hundred asses.’—‘As to that, I will take your worship’s word; and now give me leave to go and saddle Rozinante, which when I have done, and received your blessing, I intend forthwith to depart, without staying to see you play any foolish tricks, though I will affirm, I have beheld you perform so many, that she will desire to hear no more of the matter.’—‘At least, Sancho,’ said the knight, ‘I would have thee, because there is a necessity for it, stay and see me strip, and perform a dozen or two of mad pranks, which I can easily finish in half an hour; for, when thine eyes shall have been witnesses of some things I will act, thou mayest safely swear to what additions thou shalt make in thy report; and I assure thee, thou wilt not relate the half of what I intend to atchieve.’—‘For the love of God, dear Sir!’ cried Sancho, ‘let me not see your worship naked; for it will give me so much uneasiness, that I shall not be able to refrain from weeping; and my head aches already with the sorrow I felt last night about Dapple; so that I cannot bear to be set a mourning again; wherefore, if it be your worship’s pleasure that I should see some of your mad actions, pray dispatch them in your cloaths; and let them be such as will stand you in most stead: for my own part, I think there is no occasion for any such thing; and if you dispense with them, it will save time, and send me back the sooner with such news as your worship desires and deserves. For, if my Lady Dulcinea is not prepared to send a reasonable answer, I solemnly protest, I will extract a favourable reply out of her maw, by kicking and cussing. What! is it to be borne, that such a renowned knight-errant as your worship, should run mad without why or wherefore, on account of a —— I would not have her ladyship compel me to speak; or, egad, I shall blab things by the dozen, even though they should spoil the market. I am a rare fellow at that sport. I find she knows a little of my temper, otherwise i’faith! she would take care to give me no offence.’—‘In good faith, Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, ‘thou seemest to be as mad as myself.’—‘Not quite so mad,’ replied the squire, ‘but a little more cholerick; but enough of that. What eatables has your worship got to live upon till my return? will you go to the high-road, and rob the shepherds, like Cardenio?’—‘Let not that give thee any concern,’ answered the knight; ‘though I had store of provisions by me, I should eat nothing but the herbs and fruits which this meadow and these trees afford; the perfection of my design consisting in abstaining from food, and in encountering other hardships.’—‘Your worship must know,’ said Sancho, ‘that I am afraid I shall not find my way back again to this concealed and unfrequented place, in which I leave your worship.’—‘Take good notice of the marks,’ answered the knight, ‘and I shall endeavour to remain always near this very spot: nay, I will take care to ascend the highest rocks hereabouts, that I may have a chance of descrying thee afar off, in thy return. But, the best scheme for preventing thy being bewildered, will be, to cut down some of the furze that grows here in great plenty, and drop bunches of it, at small distances on the way, until thou shalt reach the flat country: and they will serve as land-marks to guide thee hither on thy return, like the clue of Theseus, in the labyrinth of Crete.’

‘I will take your advice,’ said Sancho; who accordingly cutting a large bundle, begged his master’s blessing, and took his leave, not without many tears on both sides. Then mounting Rozinante, whom Don Quixote strongly recommended to his care, commanding him to pay as much regard to the steed as he would shew for his own person; he set out for the plain, scattering, by the way, the furze he had cut, according to the direction of his master. In this manner then, did he begin his journey, notwithstanding the incessant importunities of Don Quixote, who solicited him to stay and see some of his extravagancies: but, he had not travelled above an hundred yards, when he returned, saying, ‘I confess your worship was in the right, when you observed, that, in order to my swearing with a safe conscience that I have seen you perform mad pranks, it would be necessary for you to play some in my presence; although, in my opinion, I have seen a pretty good sample already in your staying here by yourself.’—‘Did not I tell thee so, Sancho?’ said Don Quixote: ‘wait a little, and I will finish them in a twinkling.’ So saying, he stripped off his breeches in a great hurry, leaving his posteriors covered by the tail of his shirt alone, and without farther ceremony, cut a couple of capers, and a like number of tumbles, with his head down and his heels up, disclosing particulars, which shocked the modesty of Sancho so much, that in order to avoid the sight of them a second time, he turned Rozinante, fully satisfied and pleased, that he might now honestly swear he had left his master distracted. We will therefore let him pursue his journey, till his return, which was more speedy than could be expected.

Footnote 78:

The Beautiful Obscure.

Footnote 79:

Lo! Sancho’s ass hath disappeared again.

CHAP. XII. A CONTINUATION OF THE REFINEMENTS IN LOVE, PRACTISED BY DON QUIXOTE IN THE BROWN MOUNTAIN.

But, to return to the account of what the Knight of the Rueful Countenance executed when he found himself alone. The history relates, that, having performed the capers and the tumbles, naked, from the waist downward, and perceived that Sancho was gone, without waiting to see more of his extravagancies, he climbed to the top of a high rock, and there revolved what he had often reflected upon without coming to any conclusion; namely, whether it was better and more fit for his purpose, to imitate Orlando in his outrageous, or Amadis in his melancholy madness. ‘It is not to be wondered at,’ said he within himself, ‘if Orlando was such a stout and valiant knight as he is represented; for he was actually inchanted, and invulnerable by every weapon but the point of a pin, thrust into his foot, upon which he always wore a shoe with seven soles of iron: though that precaution did not avail him against Bernardo del Carpeio, who being informed of the contrivance, strangled him in his arms at the battle of Roncevalles: but the circumstance of his valour apart, let us consider that of his losing his senses, which actually happened, when he found the tokens in the fountain, and received the information of the shepherd, by which he learned that Angelica had slept more than two afternoons with Modero, the little Moor with curled locks, who was Agramante’s page; and, truly, if he was convinced in his own mind, that his mistress had misbehaved in that manner, it was no great feat to run mad upon the discovery. But why should I imitate him in his madness, when the occasion is not similar; for, my Dulcinea del Toboso, I dare swear, never in all the days of her life, beheld one Moor in his own likeness; and is this day as much a virgin as the mother that bore her; I should therefore do her a manifest injury, in imagining otherwise, and adopting that kind of madness which possessed Orlando Furioso. On the other hand, I am sensible that Amadis de Gaul, without losing his senses, or acting the madman, acquired as much, or more fame than he, in the character of a lover; for, according to the history, all that he did, when he found himself in disgrace with his mistress Oriana, who banished him from her presence during pleasure, was to retire, in company of a hermit, to the poor rock, where he contented himself with bemoaning his misfortune, until Heaven sent him succour, in the midst of his great necessity and affliction. If this circumstance, therefore, be true, as I know it is, why should I now take the trouble of stripping myself naked, or give umbrage to these trees, which have done me no harm! or what reason have I to defile the pure stream of these rivulets, which, when I want it, will yield me pleasant drink! Flourish, then, the memory of Amadis! and let him be imitated as much as possible, by Don Quixote de La Mancha, of whom may be said, that which is recorded of another[80], “If he did not atchieve great things, at least he died in attempting.” And, though I am not banished nor disdained by my Dulcinea, let it suffice, as I have already said, that I am absent from her. Come, then, let us begin: recur to my remembrance, ye feats of Amadis, and initiate me in the imitation of your fame. I know his chief exercise was prayer, and in that too will I follow his example.’ So saying, he composed a rosary of the large galls of a cork tree, which he strung together instead of beads; but, he found an unsurmountable difficulty in the want of an hermit to confess and console him: wherefore, he entertained himself in strolling about the meadow, writing and engraving verses on the barks of trees, and the smooth sand; all of them on the subject of his own melancholy, or in praise of his mistress Dulcinea; but, after he was found in this place, none, except the following, remained intelligible and entire.

I.

Ye trees and herbs, so green and tall, That shade this meadow, and adorn, If you rejoice not at my thrall, Give ear unto a wretch forlorn; Nor let my grief, though loud, invade Your peace; but, by Don Quixote, be a Self-offer’d tax of sorrow, paid In absence of his Dulcinea del Toboso.

II.

These are the rocks to which he’s driven By her who seems not much to care for The truest lover under heaven: And yet he knows not why nor wherefore. By love toss’d like a tennis-ball, A cask of tears will not defray a Whole day’s expence of grief and gall, In absence of his Dulcinea del Toboso.

III.

Among these craggy rocks and brambles, He hangs, alas! on sorrow’s tenters; Or curses, as alone he rambles, The cruel cause of his misventures. Unpitying love about his ears, With scourge severe began to play a Most dreadful game, that made his tears Flow for his absent Dulcinea del Toboso.

These verses, with the addition of del Toboso, to the name of Dulcinea, afforded infinite diversion to those who found them: for, they concluded Don Quixote had imagined, that, if he named her without this title, the stanza could not possibly be understood; and this was really the case, as he afterwards owned. Many other ditties did he compose; but, as we have already observed, none but these three stanzas could be decyphered and read. In this amusement, in sighing, invoking the fauns and sylvans of those woods, the nymphs of the brooks, with the damp and doleful echo to hear, console, and resound his complaints; and, in culling plants to sustain nature, he employed himself till the return of Sancho, who, had he stayed three weeks, instead of three days, the knight of the rueful countenance would have been so emaciated and disfigured, that he could not have been known by the mother who bore him.

However, it will not be amiss to leave him, engrossed by his sighs and poetry; in order to recount what happened to Sancho Panza, in the execution of his embassy. Having reached the highway, this trusty messenger took the road to Toboso, and next day arrived at the very inn where he had met with the disgraceful adventure of the blanketting. He no sooner perceived the unlucky house, than he fancied himself cutting capers in the air again; and was very lothe to enter, although it was then dinner time, and he was very much instigated by the desire of tasting something hot, as he had lived for a great many days past on cold victuals only. This inclination compelled him to ride close up to the inn, where, while he was sitting in suspence, and hesitating whether or not he should enter, two persons happened to come to the door, and knowing him immediately, the one said to the other, ‘Pray, Mr. Licentiate, is not that man on horseback our neighbour Sancho Panza; who, as the housekeeper told us, went out with our adventurer in quality of squire?’—‘The very same,’ answered the licentiate, ‘and that is the individual horse of our friend Don Quixote.’ And no wonder they should know him so easily; for they were no other than the curate and barber of the knight’s town, by whom the scrutiny and trial of his books were held. Having therefore recognized Sancho Panza and Rozinante, and being impatient to hear news of Don Quixote, they ran up to the squire, and the curate called him by name, saying, ‘Friend Sancho, where is your master?’ Sancho, who recollected them also, resolved to conceal the place and condition in which he had left his master; and therefore answered, that the knight was in a certain place, employed about a certain affair of the utmost importance, which he durst not disclose for the eyes that stood in his head. ‘That pretence will not do, Sancho,’ said the barber; ‘if you refuse to tell where he is, we shall imagine, as indeed we do, that you have robbed and murdered him, and taken possession of his horse; so that in good sooth, you must either produce him, or in this very spot, we will——’ ‘You have no occasion,’ cried Sancho, interrupting him, ‘to threaten people in this manner; I am not the man to rob and murder any person; every man must fall by his own fortune, or by the will of God that created him: my master is sound and safe, doing penance in the midst of that mountain, to his heart’s content.’ He then, without pausing, in a breath informed them of the condition in which he left him, recounted all the adventures which had happened to him, and told them of the letter he was carrying to my Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, who was no other than Lorenzo Corchuelo’s daughter, with whom his master was up to his ears in love.

They were astonished at what the squire related, and though well acquainted with the particular species of Don Quixote’s madness, this instance afforded fresh admiration: they desired Sancho to shew them the letter for the Lady Dulcinea del Toboso; and he told them it was only a rough draught, written on the leaf of a pocket-book; and that his master had ordered him to get it transcribed on a sheet of paper, with the first convenient opportunity. The curate promised to transcribe it in a fair legible hand, and again desiring a sight of it, Sancho put his hand in his bosom, in search of the book, which, however, he could not find; and indeed, had he fumbled till this time, it would have been to no purpose; for he had left it with Don Quixote, who had forgot to give, as he to ask it of him, before he set out. Sancho missing his charge, grew pale as death, and searching again his whole body with great eagerness, could find nothing; upon which, without more ado, he laid hold of his beard with both hands, and plucked one half of it from his chin; then, with vast dispatch and precipitation, belaboured his face and nose in such a manner, as left the whole covered with blood. The curate and barber seeing him make so free with his own person, asked what had happened to him, that made him handle himself so roughly. ‘What has happened to me?’ cried the squire, ‘I have lost and let slip through my fingers in an instant, three ass colts, each of which was as tall as a tower.’—‘By what means?’ resumed the barber. ‘I have lost,’ answered Sancho, ‘the pocket-book, in which was written the letter for Dulcinea, together with an order, signed by my master’s own hand, desiring his niece to deliver to me three colts out of four or five which he has at home.’ At the same time he told them how he had lost Dapple. The curate comforted him, by saying, that when he returned, his master would renew the order, and give him a bill upon paper, as the custom is, for those written in pocket-books are never accepted or paid.

With this assurance Sancho consoled himself, observing, since that was the case, he should not give himself much uneasiness about the loss of the letter, which, as he retained it by heart, he could cause to be transcribed where and when he pleased. The barber desired him to repeat it, telling him they would transcribe it; upon which Sancho began to scratch his head, in order to recollect it, standing sometimes on one foot, sometimes on the other. One while he fixed his eyes upon the ground, then lifted them up to Heaven; at last, after a most tedious pause, during which he gnawed off the half of one of his nails, and kept his hearers in the most impatient suspence; ‘‘Fore God, Mr. Licentiate,’ said he, ‘I believe the devil has run away with every word that I remembered of this letter; though I am positive it began with subterrene and sublime princess!’—‘It could not be subterrene,’ said the barber, ‘but superterrene or sovereign.’—‘You are in the right,’ resumed Sancho; ‘then, if my memory does not fail me, it went on with the smitten, the sleepless, and the sore, kisses your hands, most ungrateful and unregarded beauty; and something or other of health and distemper which he wished her; running on at this rate, till he concluded with, “yours, till death, the Knight of the Rueful Countenance.”’

The hearers were not a little diverted with this specimen of Sancho’s memory, which they applauded very much; desiring him to repeat the letter again, twice over, that they might retain it, until they could have an opportunity of transcribing it. He accordingly renewed his efforts, repeated it three times; and as often recited three thousand other absurdities. He likewise gave them an account of every thing which had befallen his master; but mentioned not a syllable of the blanketting that had happened to himself, in that very inn which he refused to enter; nay, he gave them to understand that his master, as soon as he could bring him a favourable dispatch from my Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, would put himself in the way of becoming an emperor or monarch at least, according to the plan settled between them. This he represented as a very easy matter, considering the valour of his person, and strength of his arm; and told them, that this design would be no sooner accomplished, than the knight would bestow upon him in marriage, (for by that time, he must of necessity be a widower) one of the maids of honour to the empress; a fine young lady, and heiress of a vast and wealthy estate upon the main land, without any oilands or islands, which he did not much care for.

Sancho uttered this piece of wrong-headed information with such composure, wiping his nose from time to time, that his townsmen could not help admiring anew the madness of Don Quixote; which, like a whirlpool, had sucked in and swept along with it the understanding of this poor simpleton. They did not chuse to fatigue themselves with endeavours to convince him of his error; but, as they believed it was not prejudicial to his conscience, resolved, for their amusement, to encourage him in his folly; with this view they advised him to pray to God for long life and health to his master; and observed, that it was a thing both likely and feasible that he should, in process of time, become an emperor, at least an archbishop, or attain some station of equal dignity. To this encouragement Sancho replied, ‘Gentlemen, if fortune should bring matters about, so as that my master should incline to be an archbishop rather than an emperor, I should be glad to know what archbishops-errant bestow upon their squires?’ The curate told him, that they commonly gave him some simple benefice, curacy, or the office of sacristan, with a good yearly income, besides the fees of the altar, which are usually reckoned at as much more. ‘In order to fill an employment of that kind,’ answered Sancho, ‘the squire must be unmarried, and at least capable of assisting at mass; and if that be the case, what will become of me, who have not only the misfortune to be married, but am also ignorant of the first letter of the A, B, C; should my master take it in his head to be an archbishop, rather than an emperor, according to the custom of knights-errant?’—‘Don’t make yourself uneasy about that matter, friend Sancho,’ said the barber; ‘for we will intreat and advise your master, nay, even make it an affair of conscience, for him to become an emperor rather than archbishop, as a station more suited to his disposition, which is more war-like than studious.’—‘I was of the same opinion,’ resumed Sancho; ‘but now, I’ll venture to say, he has a capacity for every thing; and what I intend to do, is to beseech our Lord to direct his choice to that station which will be most for his own honour and my advantage.’—‘You speak like a sensible man,’ said the curate; ‘and in so doing will act the part of a good Christian; but, our present business is to think on some means of putting an end to this useless penance your master has imposed upon himself; and in the mean time go in to dinner.’ Sancho desired them to enter, saying he would wait for them at the door, and afterwards tell them why he did not go in, and wherefore it was not proper for him so to do; but begged they would be so good as to bring out something hot for himself, and some barley for Rozinante. They accordingly went in, and in a little time the barber brought him out a mess of hot victuals. After they had both maturely deliberated about the means of accomplishing their design, the curate fell upon a scheme, extremely well-adapted to the taste of the knight, as well as to their purpose. He proposed to clothe himself in the dress of a lady-errant, and that the barber should disguise himself as well as he could, in the likeness of a squire; which being done, they should go to the place where Don Quixote was, and the priest, on pretence of being a damsel in distress, should beg a boon, which he, as a valiant knight-errant, could not help granting. This boon should be a request, that he would accompany her to a certain place whither she would conduct him, there to redress an injury she had received from a discourteous knight; and the boon should be attended with an humble supplication, that he would not desire her to take off her mask, nor ask any question about her affairs, until he should have done her justice upon her adversary. And as he firmly believed that Don Quixote would comply with any request made in that stile, he hoped, by these means, to withdraw him from the mountain, and conduct him to his own habitation, where they would endeavour to find some remedy for his strange disorder.

Footnote 80:

Probably alluding to the epitaph of Phaeton.

_Hic situs est Phaeton, currus auriga paterni,_ _Quem si non tenuit, magnis tamen excidit ausis._

CHAP. XIII. HOW THE CURATE AND BARBER SET OUT ON THE EXECUTION OF THEIR PLAN; WITH OTHER EVENTS WORTHY TO BE RECORDED IN THIS SUBLIME HISTORY.

This scheme of the curate was so well relished by the barber, that they began to put it in execution immediately; by borrowing of the landlady a petticoat and tucker, for which the priest lent a new cassock in pawn; while the barber made an artificial beard of the tail of a pied ox, in which the innkeeper used to stick his comb. When the hostess asked what occasion they had for these things, the curate gave her a brief account of Don Quixote’s madness, and explained the use to which they intended to put the disguise, in order to disengage him from the mountain where he then was. The innkeeper and his wife immediately discovered that this lunatick was no other than their quondam guest, who was author of the balsam, and master of the blanketted squire; and recounted to the curate every thing that had happened, not even forgetting the circumstance which Sancho was at such pains to conceal. In short, the landlady dressed up the curate in a most curious manner; she put upon him a cloth petticoat flounced and furbelowed, with a broad border of black velvet, and a close jerkin of green velvet, garnished with robings of white sattin, which, together with the petticoat, seemed to have been made in the reign of King Bamba[81]; he would not suffer himself to be coifed, but covered his head with a quilted linen night-cap, which he always carried about with him; and bound his forehead with a garter of black taffety, making a sort of mask with the other, which effectually concealed his countenance and beard. Over all, he slapped his beaver, which was so broad that it might have served for an umbrella; and, wrapping himself up in his cloak, mounted his mule, sitting sideways like a woman; while the barber bestrid his own beast, with his beard flowing down to his girdle, of a white and red colour, being made, as we have before observed, of a pied ox’s tail.

Thus equipped, they took leave of every body present, even the kind Maritornes, who promised, though a sinner, to mumble a whole rosary over in prayers to God, for the good success of that arduous and Christian design they had undertaken; but scarce had they sallied from the inn, when the curate began to think he was to blame for disguising himself; it being, in his opinion, indecent for a priest to appear in such a manner, how much soever depended upon their success. He therefore proposed that he should exchange characters with the barber, who might act the part of the damsel in distress, while he took that of the squire, which he thought did not so much profane the dignity of the cloth; and unless his neighbour would agree to this proposal, he assured him that he was resolved to go no farther, even if the devil himself should carry off Don Quixote. At that instant Sancho chanced to come up, and seeing them in such a garb, could not refrain from laughing; in short, the barber assented to every thing the other proposed; and the plan being thus altered, the curate began to instruct him touching his behaviour and speech to Don Quixote, in order to move and induce him to accompany them, and quit that place he had chosen for the scene of his vain and extravagant penance. The barber told him, that without his lessons, he knew very well how to demean himself in the character; and as he did not chuse to put on the dress till they should be near Don Quixote, he folded it up with great care; the priest adjusted his beard; and both together proceeded, on their journey, under the direction, of Sancho Panza, who by the way related to them what happened between his master and the madman whom they met with in the Brown Mountain; concealing, nevertheless, the circumstance of the portmanteau, and its contents; for, notwithstanding his simplicity, our youth was as covetous as wiser people.

Next day they came to the broom boughs, which Sancho had strewed, in order to ascertain the place where he had left his master: he no sooner, therefore, perceived his marks, than he told them, that was the entrance into the mountain; and desired them to put on their dresses, if they were necessary towards the deliverance of his master: for they had already assured him, that their travelling in such disguise was of the utmost importance, in disengaging the knight from that disagreeable course of life he had chosen: and they charged him not to tell his master that he knew who they were; and if he should ask, as doubtless he would, whether or not he had delivered the letter to Dulcinea, they advised him to answer in the affirmative, and tell him, that as she could not read it, she had sent her answer by word of mouth, commanding him, on pain of her displeasure, to appear in her presence with all convenient speed, on an affair of the utmost consequence to him: for, with this answer, and other speeches they intended to make, they did not at all doubt of reconciling him to a better way of life, and prevail upon him immediately to begin his career towards being an emperor or king; and as to the office of archbishop, Sancho had nothing to fear. The squire listened to these directions, which he carefully deposited in his memory, thanking them heartily for their intention to advise his master to accept of an emperor’s crown, rather than an archbishop’s mitre; as he was very sensible that emperors could do more for their squires than archbishops-errant. He also proposed to go before, in search of his master, and impart to him this answer of his lady, which, he assured them, would be sufficient to bring him out of the mountain, without their being put to any farther trouble. They approved of his opinion, and resolved to stay where they were until he should return with the news of his having found Don Quixote: accordingly, Sancho proceeded towards the heart of the mountain, leaving them in a spot watered by a small purling brook, and shaded in a most cool and agreeable manner by some rocks and trees that grew round it.

It being then the month of August, when the heat in those parts is excessive, and three in the afternoon, which is the hottest time of the day, they were the more charmed with the situation, which was so inviting, that they chose it for the place of their residence, until Sancho should return. While they lay at their ease, under the covert of this shade, their ears were saluted with the sound of a voice, which, though unaccompanied by any instrument, sung so sweet and melodiously, that they were struck with astonishment; little expecting to meet with such a delicious warbler in that unfrequented place; for though it is usually said, that the woods and mountains abound with shepherds, who sing most inchantingly, that report is rather the fiction of poets than the voice of truth: besides, the verses which they heard were not composed in the rustick phrase of clowns, but in a polite and courtly strain; as may be perceived by the song itself, which follows:

I.

Ah! what inspires my woeful strain? Unkind disdain! Ah what augments my misery? Fell jealousy! Or say, what hath my patience worn? An absent lover’s scorn. The torments, then, that I endure, No mortal remedy can cure: For every languid hope is slain, By absence, jealousy, disdain!

II.

From Love, my unrelenting foe, These sorrows flow! My infant glory’s overthrown, By Fortune’s frown; Confirm’d in this my wretched state, By the decrees of Fate. In Death alone I hope release From this compounded, dire disease; Whole cruel pangs to aggravate, Fortune and Love conspire with Fate!

III.

Ah, what will mitigate my doom? The silent tomb! Ah! what retrieve departed joy? Inconstancy! Or say, can aught but frenzy, bear This tempest of despair? All other efforts, then, are vain, To cure this soul-tormenting pain, That owns no other remedy Than madness, death, inconstancy.

The hour, the season, and the solitude, conspired with the agreeable voice of the singer, to increase the wonder and satisfaction of the hearers, who listened for some time in expectation of something else; but the silence having continued a good while, they resolved to go in quest of the person who sung so enchantingly, and were just going to set out on this design, when they were arrested by the same voice, which again saluted their ears with this other song:

I.

O sacred Friendship! mild and gay, Who to the regions of the bless’d Hath soar’d, and left mankind a prey To fraud, in thy resemblance dress’d:

II.

Auspicious hear, and hither send Thy sister Truth, with radiant eyes, To brand the false professing friend, Detected in the fair disguise.

III.

Or come thyself, and re-inspire The purpose candid and humane; Else Peace and Order will retire, While Horror and Confusion reign.

This sonnet was concluded with a most profound sigh, and the curate and barber began again to listen for more; but, finding the musick converted into mournful sobs and interjections, they were determined to know who this melancholy person was, who sung so well, and groaned so piteously. They had not gone many paces with this intent, when turning the point of a rock, they perceived a man of the same make and appearance that Sancho described, when he related the story of Cardenio: he did not seem surprized at sight of them, but stood with his head reclining upon his breast, in a very pensive posture, without lifting his eyes to look at them, after their first sudden appearance. The curate, who was a well-spoken man, concluding, from the description, that this must be he whose misfortune he had been apprized of, went up, and in a short, but pathetick address, exhorted and entreated him to quit that miserable course of life, which was the greatest of all misfortunes, and altogether perverted the end of his being. Cardenio being at that time in one of his lucid intervals, entirely free of that frantick paroxism which used so utterly to deprive him of his senses, and seeing two people so differently dressed from those he commonly met with in that solitude, could not help being somewhat surprized; especially, when he heard him talk of his misfortune as a circumstance with which they were well acquainted; for the curate had mentioned it in the course of his expostulation: and therefore he answered in this manner: ‘I plainly perceive, gentlemen, that Heaven, which is careful in succouring the good, and sometimes even the bad, hath sent, though I little deserve such favour and condescension, divers people into this unfrequented solitude, so remote from all commerce and society, in order to convince me by just and various arguments, how unreasonably I act in leading this kind of life, which they have endeavoured to make me exchange for a better; and, as they know not the reasons I have to think that, in quitting this situation, I shall be plunged into a worse; they have perhaps looked upon me as a person of very shallow understanding, or, which is still a conjecture more unfavourable, a downright madman: and truly, it is not to be wondered at, if that was really the case; for I can easily conceive, that my misfortunes operate so intensely upon my imagination, and impair my faculties so much, that sometimes, in spite of all my endeavours to the contrary, I become, like that rock, void of all sentiment and knowledge; and am convinced of my infirmity too late, when people shew me the marks of what I have done, while I was under the influence of that terrible transport: then, all that I can do, is to bewail my distemper; curse my lot in vain; and, in excuse of my madness, relate my sufferings to all who express the least desire of hearing them; that those of sounder judgment, knowing the cause, may not wonder at the effects; and if they cannot prevent, at least pardon my frenzy; converting their indignation at my extravagance into compassion for my woes; and if you, gentlemen, are come with that intention, which hath brought others to this place, before you proceed with your prudent admonitions, I intreat you to hear the detail of my misfortunes, which you do not yet know, and then, perhaps, you will save yourselves the trouble which you might otherwise take, in consoling an affliction that admits of no consolation.’

The two friends, who desired nothing else than to hear from his own mouth the cause of his misfortune, earnestly begged he would recount it, and promised to attempt nothing contrary to his own inclination in the way of remedy or comfort. Thus assured, the melancholy gentleman began his distressful story, nearly in the same words and circumstances which he had used a few days before, to Don Quixote and the goatherd, when he was interrupted in the affair of, Mr. Elisabat, by the knight’s punctuality in asserting the decorum of chivalry, as the particulars of that quarrel have been already related: but now he remained fortunately free from his paroxism, and of consequence, had time to finish the narration, which was imperfect before. When he therefore came to the circumstances of the letter which Don Fernando had found between the leaves of Amadis de Gaul[82], he said he remembered the contents, and accordingly repeated them in these terms.

‘“LUCINDA TO CARDENIO.

‘“I every day discover new qualities in Cardenio, which oblige and compel me to esteem him the more. If you are inclined to extricate me out of all suspence, you may effectuate your purpose, without the least prejudice to my honour; for my father, who is, well acquainted with your virtues, loves me dearly, and far from tyrannizing over my affections, will chearfully grant that which is so justly your due, if your passion is such as I wish and believe it to be.”

‘I resolved, as I have already told you, to demand Lucinda in marriage, upon the receipt of this letter, which not only confirmed Don Fernando’s high opinion of her prudence and virtue, but also inflamed him with the desire of ruining my hopes, before I should be able to bring them to maturity. I told this faithless friend, Lucinda’s father expected that mine should propose the match; and that I durst not communicate my desire to him, lest he should refuse to comply with it: not that he was ignorant of Lucinda’s rank, virtue, beauty, and qualifications, which were sufficient to ennoble any other family in Spain; but, because I understood he was averse to my being married, until he should see what Duke Ricardo would do in my behalf; in short, I told him that I would not venture to propose it, being afraid not only of this ill consequence, but also of many others which I could not foresee; although I had a strong impression upon my mind, that my wishes would never be compleated. In answer to this declaration, Don Fernando undertook to manage the affair, and prevail upon my father to propose the match to Lucinda’s parents.——O villain! more ambitious than Marius, more cruel than Catiline, more savage than Sylla, more fraudulent than Galalon, more treacherous than Vellido[83], more vengeful than Julian, and more covetous than Judas! cruel, false, vindictive traitor! what injuries hast thou suffered from this poor credulous wretch, who with such confidence disclosed to thee the most secret recesses of his soul! What offence had he given? what words had he uttered, or what advice had he offered, that did not directly tend to thy honour and advantage?——But, unhappy that I am! wherefore should I complain? seeing it is a thing certain, that when once the tide of misfortune, heaped up by one’s malignant stars, begins to descend with violence and fury, no earthly mound can oppose, nor human industry divert its course. Who could imagine, that such an illustrious, accomplished young gentleman, as Don Fernando, who lay under obligations for the services I had done him, and was powerful enough to obtain the gratification of his wish, whithersoever his amorous inclination pointed, should plague himself, as I may say, in attempts to rob me of my single lamb, even before I had possessed it?

‘But, let us lay aside these vain and unprofitable reflections, and rejoin the broken thread of my unfortunate story. Well, then, Don Fernando, perceiving that my presence would be an obstruction to the execution of his false and perfidious design, resolved to send me back to his elder brother, on pretence of getting money to pay for six horses, which he purposely bought that very day he undertook to speak to my father, in order to have an excuse for sending me away, that he might, in my absence, the more easily succeed in his villainous intention. Was it possible for me to prevent this treachery, or indeed conceive his design! No, surely. On the contrary, I offered, with the utmost alacrity, to set out forthwith, so pleased was I with the purchase he had made. That very night I had a private conversation with Lucinda, in which I told her the scheme I had concerted with Don Fernando, and bade her rest assured in the hope that our just and honourable desires would soon be gratified. She, as little suspicious of Don Fernando’s perfidy as I was, entreated me to return with speed, believing that our wishes would be compleated, as soon as my father should mention the affair to hers. I don’t know upon what account, her eyes were filled with tears when she pronounced these words; and something that seemed to swell in her throat, prevented her from uttering another syllable, though she looked as if she had something more to say. I was confounded at this new circumstance, which had never happened before; in all our former conversations, which my good fortune offered, or my diligence effected, there had been nothing but joy and satisfaction, without any mixture of tears, sighs, jealousy, dread, or suspicion; all my discourse used to consist of acknowledgments to Heaven, for having bestowed upon me such a mistress, whose beauty I extolled, and whose virtue and good sense I admired; while she returned the compliment, by praising those qualities in me, which she, in the partiality of her fondness, deemed worthy of applause; besides, we used to entertain each other with an account of a thousand trifling accidents that happened among our neighbours and acquaintance: and the heighth of my vivacity never amounted to more than the seizing of one of her delicate white hands, and pressing it to my lips, through the narrow distance betwixt the rails that divided us. But, on that night, which preceded the fatal day of my departure, she wept, sighed, and sobbed, and left me filled with confusion and surprize, and terrified at such unusual and melancholy marks of grief and affliction in my Lucinda. But I was flattered by my hopes, which ascribed the whole to the strength of her passion, and that sorrow which is commonly produced by the absence of a beloved object. In fine, I set out, pensive and sad, my imagination tortured with suspicions and doubts, which my reflection could neither digest nor explain: a sure presage of the melancholy fate that awaited me.

‘I arrived at the place of my destination, and delivered my letters to Don Fernando’s brother, who received me kindly; but, far from dispatching me immediately, desired me, to my infinite regret, to wait eight whole days in a place where his father should not see me, because his brother had writ to him to send the money without the knowledge of the duke. But this was altogether an invention of the false Fernando, whose brother had money enough, and could have sent me back the very same day on which I arrived. This was such an order as I was scarce able to obey, for I thought it impossible to support life for so many days in the absence of Lucinda, considering the sorrow in which I had left her. Yet, notwithstanding, I resolved to do my duty like a faithful servant, though I very well foresaw that my obedience must be at the expence of my peace. Four days of the eight were not yet elapsed, when a man came in search of me, and gave me a letter, the superscription of which I no sooner beheld, than I knew it to be written by Lucinda’s own hand. I opened it with fear and trembling, believing that there must be something very extraordinary in the case, which induced her to write to me in my absence; considering that while I was present, she had been so sparing of her pen[84]. But, before I read a syllable, I asked the messenger, who had put it into his hands, and how long he had been upon his journey? He answered, that passing through a certain street, about noon, he was stopped by a very beautiful young lady, who called to him from a window, saying, with great earnestness, while the tears trickled from her eyes, “Brother, if you are a Christian, as you seem to be, I entreat you, for God’s sake, to carry this letter to the place and person for whom it is directed; they are both well known; and in so doing, you will render a piece of service acceptable to the Lord. That you may not want conveniences upon the road, here is something to defray the expence of your journey.”” So saying, she threw down a handkerchief, in which were tied a hundred rials, this gold ring, and the letter I have delivered. Then, without waiting for a reply, she went from the window, after having seen me take up the handkerchief and the letter, and make signs that I would do as she desired. Accordingly, finding myself so well paid for the trouble I should be at, and seeing, by the direction, that you was the person to whom it was sent, (and I know you perfectly well;) induced, moreover, by the tears of that beautiful young lady, I resolved to trust no other messenger, but come and deliver it with my own hand; and in sixteen hours, which are past since I received it, I have travelled to this place, which, as you know, is about eighteen leagues from our town. While I listened attentively to the information of this grateful and extraordinary courier, my legs shook under me in such a manner, that I could scarce stand upright. At length, however, I ventured to read the letter, which contained these words.

‘“The promise which Don Fernando made, to prevail upon your father to propose a match to mine, hath been performed more to his inclination than your advantage. Know, Cardenio, that your pretended friend allied me in marriage for himself; and my father, swayed by the advantage which he thinks Don Fernando has over you in point of fortune, hath given his consent so much in earnest, that two days hence the nuptials are to be celebrated so privately, that none but Heaven, and some people in the family, are to be present at the marriage. My situation you may guess. If it be in your power, return with all speed, and the event of this affair will shew whether I love you tenderly or not. Heaven grant that this may come to your hand, before mine shall be presented to him who so ill performs the duty of a friend!”

‘This, which was the sum of what the letter contained, made me set out immediately, without waiting for any answer, or the money for which I had come. For, by that time, I plainly perceived that it was not the purchase of the horses, but his own treacherous intention, which had induced Don Fernando to send me out of the way. The indignation I conceived against him, together with the fear of losing the jewel which I had acquired, and treasured up with such unwearied services and care, added wings to my speed, and conveyed me to the place of my habitation, just at the hour and minute proper for my going to visit Lucinda. I entered the town privately, and leaving my mule at the house of the honest man who brought the letter, I went to the rail, which was the constant witness of our love, and there was so far favoured by fortune as to find Lucinda.—We knew each other presently; though not as we ought to have known each other. But, who is he who can arrogate praise to himself, for having fathomed and discerned the capricious sentiments and sickly disposition of woman? Surely no man on earth.—But this apart. Lucinda perceiving me, “Cardenio,” said she, “I am now in my bridal dress, and this moment expected in the hall by the traitor Don Fernando, my covetous father, and some other people, who shall bear witness to my death sooner than to my marriage. Be not confounded, my friend, but endeavour to be present at the sacrifice, which, if I cannot prevent by my declaration, I wear a dagger concealed, which can obstruct a more vigorous determination; and, by putting an end to my life, begin to convince thee of the sincere passion I have always entertained, and shall retain for my Cardenio.” Afraid I should want time to answer her, I replied with great hurry and confusion, “Let your words be verified by your deeds, Madam. If you have a dagger to assert your love, I wear a sword to defend it; or, should fortune prove our foe, to rid myself of life.” I believe she did not hear all that I said, because she was called away in a hurry, to the bridegroom, who waited for her.’

‘Thus deepened the night of my distress; thus set the sun of my happiness! I remained without light to my eyes, or reflection to my mind, for some time; I could neither resolve to enter her father’s house, nor remove to any other place; at length, however, considering of what consequence my presence might be, in case any thing extraordinary should happen, I recollected myself, as well as I could, and went in, without being perceived, as I was well acquainted with all the passages and corners of the house, and was favoured by the confusion which then prevailed in it on account of the nuptials. Thus entering, unseen, I found means to conceal myself in the hollow of a window in the hall, that was covered by the meeting of two pieces of tapestry, from behind which I could, without being perceived, observe every thing that happened.

‘How shall I describe the throbbings and palpitations of my heart, the images that occurred to my fancy, the reflections that I made while I remained in that situation! they were such as I neither can nor ought to describe. Let it suffice to say, the bridegroom came into the hall, without any other ornaments than his usual dress, attended by a first cousin of Lucinda, in quality of bridesman, no other person being present, except some servants of the family. A little while after Lucinda came in from her closet, accompanied by her mother and two waiting-women; and as richly dressed and adorned as her rank and beauty deserved, or as the perfection of gaiety and gallantry could invent. The suspence and transport of my soul would not allow me to observe and mark the particulars of her dress; I could only take notice of the colours, which were carnation and white; and the blaze of jewels that adorned her, which was even excelled by the singular beauty of her golden locks, that struck the eye with more splendor than all the precious stones, together with the light of four torches that burned in the hall.—O memory! thou mortal enemy of my repose! to what purpose dost thou now represent to my fancy the unparalleled beauty of that adorable foe? Cruel remembrance! rather recal to my view the particulars of what then happened, that, incensed by such a manifest injury, I may take vengeance, if not upon her, at least upon my own life. But you, gentlemen, must be tired with these digressions; though my misfortune is such as neither can, nor ought to be superficially or succinctly related; because every circumstance, in my opinion, requires a full discussion.’ The curate answered, that far from being tired, they were very much entertained by those minute particulars, which he thought deserved as much attention as the principal events of the story.

‘I say, then,’ resumed Cardenio, that the parties being assembled in the hall, the curate of the parish entered, and taking them both by the hands, in order to perform his function, he said, “Madam Lucinda, are you willing to take Don Fernando here present for your lawful spouse, as holy mother church ordains?” At this question, I thrust out my whole head and neck from behind the tapestry, and, with the utmost attention and disorder of soul, listened, to Lucinda’s answer, which I expected, as either the sentence of my death or confirmation of my life.—O that I had boldly advanced, and called aloud, “Ah Lucinda! Lucinda! take care what you do; reflect upon your duty to me, remember you are mine, and can never belong to any other husband. Consider, that my life must end the moment you answer yes.—Ha! treacherous Don Fernando! robber of my glory! death of my life! what are thy intentions! What wouldst thou have! remember that, as a Christian, thou canst not fulfil thy desires; for I am Lucinda’s husband, and she is my lawful wife!”—Fool that I am! now, when I am absent, and far removed from the danger, I can reflect upon what I ought to have done. Now that I am robbed of all that was dear to my soul! accursed be the robber, on whom I might have taken vengeance, had my heart supplied me with courage, as it now affords inclination to complain. In fine, as I then acted like a booby and a coward, it is but reasonable that I should now die of madness, sorrow, and shame. The priest waited for the reply of Lucinda, who declined it a good while; and when I expected she would either unsheath her dagger to vindicate her love, employ her tongue in the cause of truth, or utter some ingenious fraud that should tend to my advantage, I heard her pronounce with a weak and faultering voice, “Yes, I will.” Don Fernando repeated the same words, and the ring being put upon her finger, they were united in the indissoluble bond of marriage; then he embraced his new-married spouse, who, laying her hand on her heart, fainted away in the arms of her mother. It now remains to describe my own situation, when I heard and saw my hopes thus baffled by Lucinda’s breach of promise; and found myself rendered incapable of ever retrieving the happiness I had that instant lost. I remained without sense or reflection, abandoned, as I thought, by Heaven, and a declared enemy to that earth on which I lived. The air refused breath for my sighs, the water denied moisture for my tears, fire alone increased within me, to such a degree, that I was scorched with jealousy and rage! Lucinda’s swooning threw the whole company into confusion; and her mother opening her breast to give her air, found in it a folded paper, which Don Fernando taking, read by the light of one of the torches, and then sat down in a chair, and leaned one side of his head upon his hand, in a pensive attitude, without minding the remedies they were applying for the recovery of his spouse.

‘I, seeing the whole family in confusion, ventured to come out, cost what it would; resolving, should I be seen, to do some desperate action that would convince the whole world of my just indignation, in chastising the false Don Fernando, and the fickle fainting traitress. But fate, that reserved me, if possible, for greater misfortunes, ordained that I should then abound in reflection, which hath since failed me; and resolve, rather than take vengeance upon my greatest enemies, who, as they had no suspicion of me, were then at my mercy, to turn upon myself that resentment which they so justly deferred to feel; and, perhaps, with more rigour than I should have exercised upon them, had I at that time sacrificed them to my rage, because sudden death is infinitely more easy than that which is lengthened out by lingering torments. In short, I quitted the house, and went to the place where I had left my mule, which being saddled, I mounted her, and without taking leave of my host, sallied out of town, dreading, like another Lot, to look behind me. When I found myself alone in the open field, shrouded by the darkness of the night, and invited by the silence to complain, without caution or fear of being overheard or known, I raised my voice, and gave a loose to my indignation, in venting curses upon Lucinda and Don Fernando, as if those vain exclamations could have atoned for the injury they had done me. I bestowed upon her the epithets of cruel, false, perfidious, and ungrateful; but, above all, avaricious; since the wealth of my rival had shut the eyes of her love, detached her from me, and swayed her inclination towards him to whom fortune had shewn herself more kind and liberal. Yet, in the midst of these reproaches and invectives, I could not help excusing her, observing, it was no wonder, that a damsel educated under restraint, in the house of her parents, bred up, and always accustomed to obey them, should comply with their will and pleasure, in marrying a young gentleman of such wealth, rank, and qualifications, that her refusal might have been thought to proceed either from want of sense, or a passion for some other man, which would have been a suspicion equally prejudicial to her virtue and reputation: then I argued on the other side of the question; saying, had she owned that I was her husband, her parents would have seen she had not committed an unpardonable crime in making such a choice; since, before the offer of Don Fernando, they themselves could not have desired, had their desires been bounded by reason, a better match than me for their daughter; and consequently, before she complied with that compulsive injunction of giving her hand to another, she might have told them, that she had already given it to me; in which case, I would have appeared and confirmed the truth of every thing she should have feigned for the occasion; in fine, I concluded, that superficial love, slender understanding, vast ambition, and thirst after grandeur, had obliterated in her memory those professions by which I had been deceived, cherished, and supported, in the unshaken hope of my honourable desires.

‘In this exclamation and anxiety I travelled all night; and in the morning found myself in one of the passages to this mountain, in which I proceeded three days more, without high-road, or bye-path, till I stopped at a small meadow, that lies either on the right or left of these rocks; there I enquired of some goatherds whereabouts the most craggy part of the mountain was; and, according to their directions, thither I rode, resolving to put an end to my life. When I arrived among those ragged rocks, my mule fell down dead of weariness and hunger; or, as I rather believe, to disencumber herself of such a useless load as then burdened her; and I remained on foot, quite spent and famished, without having or desiring any support. In this situation, I know not how long I continued stretched upon the ground: but, at length, I got up without feeling any cravings or hunger, and found myself in the midst of some shepherds, who, doubtless, had relieved my necessity. Indeed, they told me in what condition I had been found, uttering such incoherent and extravagant expressions, as clearly demonstrated that I had lost my senses. Since that time, I have frequently perceived my intellects so crazy and unsound, that I perform a thousand mad actions, tearing my cloaths, bellowing through those unfrequented places, cursing my fate, and repeating in vain the beloved name of my fair enemy, without any connected sentences, or indeed any other intent than that of putting an end to my life by violent outcries; and when I recover the use of my senses, I find myself so weak and exhausted, that I scarce can move. My usual habitation is the hollow of a cork tree, large enough to contain this miserable carcase; the cow and goatherds who frequent these mountains, maintain me out of charity, by leaving food upon the road, or rocks, on which they think I may chance to find it; and, even while I am deprived of my understanding, natural instinct teaches me to distinguish this necessary nourishment, awakening my appetite and desire of seizing it for my use. They tell me, too, when they meet with me in one of my lucid intervals, that at other times I sally out by the highway, and take it by force from the shepherds, as they are bringing it from their cots, although they offer it of their own accord. In this manner I lead my woeful and wretched life, until Heaven shall be pleased to put a period to it, or give me grace to forget the beauty and falshood of Lucinda, together with the wrong I have suffered from Don Fernando. If this shall happen before I die, my intellects will return into their right channel; otherwise there is nothing to be done, but to supplicate Heaven to have mercy on my soul; for I find I have neither virtue nor strength to extricate myself out of this extremity into which I was voluntarily plunged.

‘This, gentlemen, is the bitter story of my misfortune; tell me, if you think it could have been rehearsed with less concern than I have shewn; and pray give yourselves no trouble in offering to me such persuasions and advice, as your reason prompts you to think will do me service; for they can have no other effect upon me, than the prescription of a celebrated physician upon a patient who will not receive it. I will have no health without Lucinda; and since she who is, or ought to be mine, hath attached herself to another, I, who might have been the child of happiness, am now the willing votary of woe. She, by her inconstancy, wants to fix my perdition; and I welcome it, in order to gratify her desire, and be an example to posterity, of one who wanted that consolation, which almost all the wretched use! namely, the impossibility of receiving comfort; a consideration that increases my misery, which, I fear, will not end even with death.’

Thus did Cardenio wind up the long thread of his amorous and unfortunate story; and just as the curate was about to give him his best advice and consolation, he was prevented by a voice that saluted his ears, and in mournful accents pronounced what will be rehearsed in the fourth book of this narration; for, in this place, the third is concluded by the sage and attentive historian Cid Hamet Benengeli.

END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.

Footnote 81:

Bamba, or Wamba, king of the Visigoths in Spain, mounted the throne in the year 672, and was famous for his success against the Arabians, as well as for his attachment to the Christian religion, as a proof of which he retired into a monastery, and resigned the kingdom to Ervige.

Footnote 82:

There is no such letter mentioned in his conversation with Don Quixote.

Footnote 83:

Who murdered Sancho I. king of Castile, while he was engaged in the siege of Zamora.

Footnote 84:

The original _pues presente pocas vezes lo bazía_, signifies, ‘Since while I was present she did it very seldom.’ This at first sight appears a solecism, and the petulant critick will exclaim, ‘What occasion had she to write to her lover who was present, unless she had lost the faculty of speech!’ But the seeming absurdity will vanish, when we reflect that by _present_, he means, in the same city with his mistress; to whom, however, according to the custom of Spain, he had little or no access but by a literary correspondence.

VOLUME THE SECOND.