BOOK II.
CHAP. I. THE CONCLUSION AND CONSEQUENCE OF THE STUPENDOUS COMBAT BETWEEN THE GALLANT BISCAYAN, AND THE VALIANT KNIGHT OF LA MANCHA.
In the first book of this history we left the valiant Biscayan and renowned Don Quixote with their gleaming swords brandished aloft, about to discharge two such furious strokes, as must (if they had cut sheer) have cleft them both asunder from top to toe, like a couple of pomegranates; and in this dubious and critical conjuncture, the delicious history abruptly breaks off, without our being informed by the author where or how that which is wanting may be found.
I was not a little concerned at this disappointment; for the pleasure I enjoyed in the little I had read, was changed into disgust, when I reflected on the small prospect I had of finding the greater part of this relishing story, which in my opinion was lost: and yet it seemed impossible, and contrary to every laudable custom, that such an excellent knight should be unprovided with some sage to undertake the history of his unheard of exploits; a convenience which none of those knights-errant, who went in quest of adventures, ever wanted, each of them having been accommodated with one or two necromancers, on purpose to record not only his atchievements, but even his most hidden thoughts and amusements. Surely, then, such a compleat errant could not be so unlucky as to want that, which even Platil, and other such second-rate warriors, enjoyed.
I could not therefore prevail upon myself to believe that such a spirited history was left so lame and unfinished, but laid the whole blame on the malignity of time, which wastes and devours all things, and by which, no doubt, this was either consumed or concealed: on the other hand, I considered, that as some books had been found in his library so modern as the Undeceptions of Jealousy, together with the Nymphs and Shepherds of Henares; his own history must also be of a modern date, and the circumstances, though not committed to writing, still fresh in the memory of his neighbours and townsmen. This consideration perplexed and inflamed me with the desire of knowing the true and genuine account of the life and wonderful exploits of our Spanish worthy Don Quixote de La Mancha, the sun and mirror of Manchegan chivalry; the first who, in this our age, and these degenerate times, undertook the toil and exercise of errantry and arms, to redress grievances, support the widow, and protect those damsels who stroll about with whip and palfrey, from hill to hill, and from dale to dale, on the strength of their virginity alone: for in times past, unless some libidinous clown with hatchet and morrion, or monstrous giant, forced her to his brutal wishes, a damsel might have lived fourscore years without ever lying under any other cover than that of heaven, and then gone to her grave as good a maiden as the mother that bore her. I say, therefore, that for these and many other considerations, our gallant Don Quixote merits incessant and immortal praise; and even I myself may claim some share, for my labour and diligence in finding the conclusion of this agreeable history; though I am well aware, that if I had not been favoured by fortune, chance, or Providence, the world would have been deprived of that pleasure and satisfaction which the attentive reader may enjoy for an hour or two, in perusing what follows: the manner of my finding it I will now recount.
While I was walking one day on the exchange of Toledo, a boy coming up to a certain mercer, offered to sell him a bundle of old papers he had in his hand: now, as I have always a strong propensity to read even those scraps that sometimes fly about the streets, I was led by this my natural curiosity, to turn over some of the leaves; I found them written in Arabick, which not being able to read, though I knew the characters, I looked about for some Portuguese Moor who should understand it; and, indeed, though the language had been both more elegant and ancient, I might easily have found an interpreter. In short, I lighted upon one, to whom expressing my desire, and putting the pamphlet into his hands, he opened it in the middle, and after having read a few lines, began to laugh; when I asked the cause of his laughter, he said it was occasioned by a whimsical annotation in the margin of the book. I begged he would tell me what it was, and he answered, still laughing, ‘What I find written in the margin, is to this purpose: “this same Dulcinea, so often mentioned in the history, is said to have had the best hand at salting pork of any woman in La Mancha.”’
Not a little surprized at hearing Dulcinea del Toboso mentioned, I immediately conjectured that the bundle actually contained the history of Don Quixote. Possessed with this notion, I bade him, with great eagerness, read the title-page, which having perused, he translated it extempore from Arabic to Spanish, in these words: ‘The History of Don Quixote de La Mancha, written by Cid Hamet Benengeli, an Arabian author.’ No small discretion was requisite to dissemble the satisfaction I felt, when my ears were saluted with the title of these papers, which, snatching from the master, I immediately bought in the lump for half a rial; though, if the owner had been cunning enough to discover my eagerness to possess them, he might have laid his account with getting twelve times the sum by the bargain.
I then retired with my Moor through the cloisters of the cathedral, and desired him to translate all those papers that related to Don Quixote into the Castilian tongue, without addition or diminution, offering to pay any thing he should charge for his labour: his demand was limited to two quarters of raisins, and as many bushels of wheat, for which he promised to translate them with great care, conciseness, and fidelity: but I, the more to facilitate the business without parting with such a rich prize, conducted him to my own house, where, in little less than six weeks, he translated the whole, in the same manner as shall here be related.
In the first sheet was painted to the life the battle betwixt Don Quixote and the Biscayan, who were represented in the same posture as the history has already described, their swords brandished aloft, one of the antagonists covered with his shield, the other with his cushion, and the Biscayan’s mule so naturally set forth, that you might have known her to have been an hireling, at the distance of a bow-shot. Under the feet of her rider was a label containing these words, ‘Don Sancho de Azpetia,’ which was doubtless his name; and beneath our knight was another, with the title of ‘Don Quixote.’ Rozinante was most wonderfully delineated, so long and raw-boned, so lank and meagre, so sharp in the back, and consumptive, that one might easily perceive, with what propriety and penetration the name of Rozinante had been bestowed upon him. Hard by the steed was Sancho Panza, holding his ass by the halter, at whose feet was a third label, inscribed ‘Sancho Zancas,’ who, in the picture, was represented as a person of a short stature, swag belly, and long spindle-shanks: for this reason he ought to be called indiscriminately by the names of Panza[45] and Zanchas; for by both these surnames is he sometimes mentioned in history.
There were divers other minute circumstances to be observed, but all of them of small importance and concern to the truth of the history, though, indeed, nothing that is true can be impertinent: however, if any objection can be started to the truth of this, it can be no other, but that the author was an Arabian, of a nation but too much addicted to falshood, though, as they are at present our enemies, it may be supposed, that he has rather failed than exceeded in the representation of our hero’s exploits; for, in my opinion, when he had frequently opportunities and calls to exercise his pen in the praise of such an illustrious knight, he seems to be industriously silent on the subject; a circumstance very little to his commendation, for all historians ought to be punctual, candid, and dispassionate, that neither interest, rancour, fear, or affection, may mislead them from the road of Truth, whose mother is History, that rival of Time, that repository of great actions, witness of the past, example and pattern of the present, and oracle of future ages. In this, I know, will be found whatsoever can be expected in the most pleasant performance; and if any thing seems imperfect, I affirm it must be owing to the fault of the infidel its author, rather than to any failure of the subject itself: in short, the second book in the translation begins thus—
The flaming swords of the two valiant and incensed combatants, brandished in the air, seemed to threaten heaven, earth, and hell, such was the rage and resolution of those that wielded them; but the first blow was discharged by the cholerick Biscayan, who struck with such force and fury, that if the blade had not turned by the way, that single stroke would have been sufficient to have put an end to this dreadful conflict, and all the other adventures of our knight; but his good genius, which preserved him for mightier things, turned the sword of his antagonist aside, so that though it fell upon his left shoulder, it did no other damage than disarm that whole side, slicing off in its passage, the greatest part of his helmet, with half of his ear, which fell to the ground with hideous ruin, leaving him in a very uncomfortable situation. Good Heavens! where is the man who can worthily express the rage and indignation which entered into the heart of our Manchegan, when he saw himself handled in this manner! I shall only say, his fury was such, that raising himself again in his stirrups, and grasping his sword with both hands, he discharged it so full upon the cushion and head of the Biscayan, which it but ill-defended, that, as if a mountain had fallen upon him, he began to spout blood from his nostrils, mouth, and ears, and seemed ready to fall from his mule, which would certainly have been the case, if he had not laid hold of the mane: yet notwithstanding this effort, his feet falling out of the stirrups, and his arms quitting their hold, the mule, which was frightened at the terrible stroke, began to run across the field, and after a few plunges came with her master to the ground. Don Quixote, who sat observing him with great tranquillity, no sooner perceived him fall, than leaping from his horse, he ran up to him with great agility, and setting the point of his sword to his throat, bade him surrender on pain of having his head cut off. The Biscayan was so confounded by the blow and fall he had sustained, that he could not answer one syllable; and as Don Quixote was blinded by his rage, he would have fared very ill, if the ladies of the coach, who had hitherto, in great consternation, been spectators of the battle, had not run to the place where he was, and requested, with the most fervent entreaties, that his worship would grant them the favour to spare the life of their squire.
To this petition the knight replied, with great stateliness and gravity, ‘Assuredly, most beautiful ladies, I am very ready to do what you desire, but it shall be upon condition and proviso, that this cavalier promise to go straight to Toboso, and present himself in my behalf, before the unparalleled Donna Dulcinea, that she may use him according to her good pleasure.’ The timorous and disconsolate ladies, without entering into the detail of what Don Quixote desired, or enquiring who this Dulcinea was, promised that the squire should obey the knight’s commands in every thing. ‘Upon the faith of your word, then,’ said Don Quixote, ‘I will do him no farther damage, though he has richly deserved it at my hand.’
Footnote 45:
Panza, in Castilian, signifies Paunch; and Zancas, Spindle-shanks.
CHAP. II. OF WHAT FARTHER HAPPENED BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE AND THE BISCAYAN.
All this time, Sancho Panza having got up, though very roughly handled by the lacquies of the friars, stood very attentively beholding the battle of his master Don Quixote, and put up ejaculatory petitions to heaven, that it would please to grant him the victory, and that he might gain by it some island, of which he himself might be made governor, in consequence of the knight’s promise. Seeing therefore the battle ended, and his master returning to mount Rozinante, he went to hold his stirrup, and before he got up, fell on his knees before him; then laying hold of his hand, and kissing it, pronounced with great fervency, ‘Sir Don Quixote, will your worship be pleased to bestow on me the government of that island which you have won in this dreadful combat; for let it be ever so great, I find I have strength enough to govern it, as well as any he who governs an island in this world.’ To this request Don Quixote replied, ‘You must know, Brother Sancho, that such as these are not adventures of islands, but frays that happen in bye-roads, in which there is nothing to be got but a broken head, with the loss of an ear; have a little patience, and we shall meet with adventures, which will enable me to make you not only a governor, but something more.’ Sancho made him many hearty acknowledgments for his promise, then kissing his hand again, and his coat of mail, helped him to mount Rozinante; and he himself getting upon his ass, followed his master, who set off at a round pace, and without bidding adieu, or speaking one syllable to those in the coach, entered a wood that was in the neighbourhood.
Sancho followed him as hard as his beast would trot; but Rozinante exerted such speed, that seeing himself left behind, he was obliged to call to his master to wait for him. The knight complied with his request, and checked his horse, until he was overtaken by his weary squire; who, when he approached him, ‘Sir,’ said he, ‘methinks it would be the wisest course for us to retreat to some church; for as he with whom you fought remains but in a sorry condition, it is odds but they inform the holy brotherhood of the affair[46], and have us apprehended; and verily, if they do, before we get out of prison we may chance to sweat for it.’—‘Peace, Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, ‘where didst thou ever see or hear, that a knight-errant was brought to justice for the greatest homicides he had committed?’—‘I know nothing of your honey-seeds,’ answered Sancho, ‘nor in my life did I ever see one of them; this only I know, that the holy brotherhood commonly looks after those who quarrel and fight up and down the country; and as to the other affair, I have no business to intermeddle in it.’
‘Set your heart at ease then, friend Sancho,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘for I will deliver you from the hands of the Philistines, much more from the clutches of the brotherhood; but tell me, on thy life, hast thou ever seen a more valiant knight than me in any country of the known world? Hast thou ever read in story of any other who possesses, or has possessed, more courage in attacking, more breath in persevering, more dexterity in wounding, and more agility in overthrowing his antagonist?’—‘The truth is,’ answered Sancho, ‘I never read a history since I was born; for indeed I can neither read nor write; but what I will make bold to wager upon is, that a more daring master than your worship I never served in the days of my life; and I wish to God, that your courage may not meet with that reward I have already mentioned. What I beg of your worship at present is, that you would allow me to dress that ear, which bleeds very much, for I have got some lint, and a little white ointment in my wallet.’—‘These would have been altogether needless,’ answered the knight, ‘if I had remembered to make a phial of the balsam of Fierabras, one single drop of which would save abundance of time and trouble.’—‘What sort of a phial and balsam is that?’ said Sancho Panza. ‘It is a balsam,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘the receipt of which I retain in my memory, and he that possesses the valuable composition needs be in no fear of death, nor think of perishing by any wound whatsoever: and therefore, when I shall have made it, and delivered it into thy keeping, thou hast no more to do when thou seest me in any combat cut through the middle, a circumstance that very often happens, but to snatch up that part of the body which falls to the ground, and before the blood shall congeal, set it upon the other half that remains in the saddle, taking care to join them with the utmost nicety and exactness; then making me swallow a couple of draughts of the aforesaid balsam, thou wilt see me in a twinkling, as whole and as sound as an apple.’
‘If that be the case,’ said Sancho Panza, ‘I henceforth renounce the government of that island you promised me, and desire no other reward for my long and faithful service, but that your worship will give me the receipt of that same most exceeding liquor; for I imagine, that it will sell for two rials an ounce at least, and that will be sufficient to make me spend the rest of my days in credit and ease: but it will be necessary to know if the composition be costly.’—‘I can make a gallon of it for less than three rials,’ replied the knight. ‘Sinner that I am!’ cried Sancho, ‘what hinders your worship from teaching me to make it this moment?’—‘Hold thy tongue, friend,’ said the knight. ‘I intend to teach thee greater secrets, and bestow upon thee more considerable rewards than that; but, in the mean time, let us dress my ear, which pains me more than I could wish.’
The squire accordingly took out his lint and ointment: but when his master found that his helmet was quite demolished, he had almost run stark mad: he laid his hand upon his sword, and lifting up his hands to heaven, pronounced aloud, ‘I swear by the Creator of all things, and by all that is written in the four holy evangelists! to lead the life which the great Marquis of Mantua led, when he swore to revenge the death of his cousin Valdovinos; neither to eat food upon a table, nor enjoy his wife, with many other things, which, though I do not remember, I here consider as expressed, until I shall have taken full vengeance upon him who has done me this injury[47].’ Sancho hearing this invocation, ‘Sir Don Quixote,’ said he, ‘I hope your worship will consider, that if the knight shall accomplish what he was ordered to do, namely, to present himself before my Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, he will have done his duty, and certainly deserves no other punishment, unless he commits a new crime.’—‘Thou hast spoke very much to the purpose, and hit the nail on the head,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘therefore I annul my oath, so far as it regards my revenge, but I make and confirm it anew, to lead the life I have mentioned, until such time as I can take by force as good a helmet as this from some other knight; and thou must not think, Sancho, that I am now making a smoke of straw; for I know very well whom I imitate in this affair; the same thing having literally happened about the helmet of Mambrino, which cost Sacripante so dear.[48]’
‘Sir, Sir,’ replied Sancho, with some heat, ‘I wish your worship would send to the devil all such oaths, which are so mischievous to the health and prejudicial to the conscience; for, tell me now, if we should not find in many days, a man armed with a helmet, what must we do? must we perform this vow, in spite of all the rubs and inconveniences in the way; such as to lie in one’s cloaths, and not to sleep in an inhabited place, with a thousand other penances contained in the oath of that old mad Marquis of Mantua, which your worship now wants to renew? Pray, Sir, consider that there are no armed people in these roads, none but carriers and carters, which far from wearing helmets themselves, perhaps never heard of any such thing during the whole course of their lives.’—‘There thou art egregiously mistaken,’ replied Don Quixote; ‘for, before we are two hours in the cross-ways, we shall see armed men more numerous than those that came to Albraca, in order to win Angelica the fair.’—‘On then, and be it so,’ said Sancho, ‘and pray God we may succeed, and that the time may come when we shall gain that island which has cost me so dear, and then I care not how soon I die.’—‘I have already advised thee, Sancho,’ said the knight, ‘to give thyself no trouble about that affair; for, should we be disappointed in the expectation of an island, there is the kingdom of Denmark; or that of Sobrediza, which will suit thee as well as ever a ring fitted a finger, and ought to give thee more joy, because it is situated on Terra Firma; but let us leave these things to the determination of time, and see if thou hast got any thing in thy wallet; for we must go presently in quest of some castle, where we may procure a night’s lodging, and ingredients to make that same balsam I mentioned; for, I vow to God! my ear gives me infinite pain.’
‘I have got here in my bags,’ said Sancho, ‘an onion, a slice of cheese, and a few crusts of bread; but these are eatables which do not suit the palate of such a valiant knight-errant as your worship.’—‘How little you understand of the matter!’ answered Don Quixote. ‘Thou must know, Sancho, that it is for the honour of knights-errant, to abstain whole months together from food, and when they do eat, to be contented with what is next at hand; this thou wouldst not have been ignorant of, hadst thou read so many histories as I have perused, in which, numerous as they are, I have never found any account of knights-errant eating, except occasionally, at some sumptuous banquet made on purpose for them; at other times, living upon air; and though it must be taken for granted, that they could not altogether live without eating, or complying with the other necessities of nature, being in effect men as we are; yet we are likewise to consider, that as the greatest part of their lives was spent in travelling through woods and desarts, without any cook or caterer, their ordinary diet was no other than such rustick food as thou hast now got for our present occasions[49]; therefore, friend Sancho, give thyself no uneasiness, because thou hast got nothing to gratify the palate, nor seek to unhinge or alter the constitution of things.’
‘I beg your worship’s pardon,’ said Sancho, ‘for as I can neither read nor write, as I have already observed, I may have mistaken the rules of your knightly profession; but from henceforward I will store my budget with all sorts of dry fruits for your worship, who are a knight; and for myself, who am none, I will provide other more volatile and substantial food[50].’—‘I do not say, Sancho, that knights-errant are obliged to eat nothing except these fruits, but only that their most ordinary sustenance is composed of them and some certain herbs, which they know how to gather in the fields; a species of knowledge which I myself am no stranger to.’—‘Surely,’ answered Sancho, ‘it is a great comfort to know these same herbs; for it comes into my head, we shall one day or another have occasion to make use of the knowledge:’ and taking out the contents of his wallet, they eat together with great harmony and satisfaction; but, being desirous of finding some place for their night’s lodging, they finished their humble repast in a hurry, and mounting their beasts, put on at a good rate, in order to reach some village before it should be dark; but the hope of gratifying that desire failed them with day-light, just when they happened to be near a goatherd’s hut, in which they resolved to pass the night; and in the same proportion that Sancho was disgusted at not being able to reach some village, his master was rejoiced at an opportunity of sleeping under the cope of heaven, because he looked upon every occasion of this kind as an act of possession that strengthened the proof of his knight-errantry.
Footnote 46:
Santa Hermandad was a brotherhood or society instituted in Spain in times of confusion, to suppress robbery, and render travelling safe.
Footnote 47:
These ridiculous oaths or vows are not confined to romances. Philip, the good Duke of Burgundy, at a publick banquet, vowed to God, the holy virgin, the peacock, and the ladies, that he would declare war against the infidels; and a great number of persons who were present, listed themselves under the same vow, and incurred voluntary penance until it should be accomplished. Some swore they would never lie upon a bed, others renounced the use of a table-cloth, a third set obliged themselves to fast one particular day in the week, a fourth went without one particular piece of armour, a fifth wore his armour night and day, and many confined themselves to shirts of sackcloth and hair.
Footnote 48:
Geoffroi de Rançon, having been injured by the Count de La Marche, swore by the saints that he would wear his buskin like a woman, and never suffer himself to be shaved in the manner of chivalry, until he should be revenged. This oath he scrupulously observed, until he saw his adversary, with his wife and children, kneeling in distress before the king, and imploring his forgiveness; then he called for a stool, adjusted his buskin, and was shaved in presence of his majesty and the court.
The knight’s forehead was commonly shaved, that in case he should lose his helmet in combat, his antagonist should have no hold by which he might be pulled off his horse.
Footnote 49:
We read in Perce Forest, that there were flat stones placed at certain distances in uninhabited parts of the country, for the use of knights-errant; who, having killed a roe-buck, pressed the blood out of it upon one of these tables by the help of another smooth stone, and then eat it with some salt and spices, which they carried along with them for that purpose. This diet is called in the French romances, _Chevraux de presse, nourreture des heraux_.
Footnote 50:
Volatile, in the original, signifies any things that fly; and therefore Sancho may be supposed to mean, he would provide himself with game or poultry; but the blunder which we have made him commit seems to be more in character.
CHAP. III. OF WHAT HAPPENED TO DON QUIXOTE WHILE HE REMAINED WITH THE GOATHERDS.
He received a very hearty welcome from the goatherds; and Sancho having, as well as he could, accommodated Rozinante and his ass, was attracted by the odour that issued from some pieces of goat’s flesh that were boiling in a kettle; but though he longed very much at that instant to see if it was time to transfer them from the kettle to the belly, he checked his curiosity, because the landlord took them from the fire, and spreading some sheep-skins upon the ground, let out their rustick table without loss of time; inviting their two guests to a share of their mess, with many expressions of good-will and hospitality. Then those who belonged to the cot, being six in number, seated themselves round the skins, having first, with their boorish ceremony, desired Don Quixote to sit down on a trough, which they had overturned for that purpose.
The knight accepted their offer, and Sancho remained standing, to administer the cup, which was made of horn; but his master perceiving him in this attitude, ‘That thou may’st see, Sancho,’ said he, ‘the benefit which is concentered in knight-errantry; and how near all those who exercise themselves in any sort of ministry belonging to it, are to preferment and esteem of the world, I desire thee to sit down here by my side, in company with these worthy people; and that thou may’st be on an equal footing with me, thy natural lord and master, eating in the same dish, and drinking out of the same cup that I use; for what is said of love may be observed of knight-errantry, that it puts all things upon a level.’
‘I give you a thousand thanks,’ said Sancho; ‘but I must tell your worship that, provided I have plenty, I can eat as much, nay more to my satisfaction, standing on my legs, and in my own company, than if I was to sit by the side of an emperor; and, if all the truth must be told, I had much rather dine by myself in a corner, though it should be upon a bit of bread and an onion, without all your niceties and ceremonies, than eat turkey-cocks at another man’s table, where I am obliged to chew softly, to drink sparingly, to wipe my mouth every minute, to abstain from sneezing or coughing, though I should be never so much inclined to either, and from a great many other things, which I can freely do when alone; therefore, Sir master of mine, I hope these honours which your worship would put upon me, as being the servant and abettor of knight errantry, which to be sure I am, while I remain in quality of your squire, may be converted into other things of more ease and advantage to me, than those which, though I hold them as received in full, I renounce from henceforth for ever, amen.’—‘Thou must nevertheless sit thee down,’ said his master; ‘for him that is humble, God will exalt;’ and, seizing him by the arm, he pulled him down to the seat on which he himself sat.
The goatherds, who understood not a word of all this jargon of squire and knights-errant, did nothing but eat in silence, and gaze upon their guests; who, with keen appetite, and infinite relish, solaced their stomachs, by swallowing pieces as large as their fists. This service of meat being finished, they spread upon their skins great quantities of acorns, and half a cheese, harder than plaister of Paris: all this time the horn was not idle, but went round so fast, sometimes full, sometimes empty, like the buckets of a well, that they soon voided one of the two skins of wine that hung in view.
Don Quixote having satisfied his appetite, took up an handful of the acorns, and after looking at them attentively, delivered himself to this purpose: ‘Happy age, and happy days were those, to which the ancients gave the name of golden; not that gold, which in these our iron times is so much esteemed, was to be acquired without trouble, in that fortunate period; but because people were then ignorant of those two words MINE and THINE: in that sacred age, all things were in common; no man was necessitated, in search of his daily food, to undergo any other trouble than that of reaching out his hand, and receiving it from the sturdy oak, that liberally invited him to pull his sweet and salutary fruit. The limpid fountains and murmuring rills afforded him their savoury and transparent waters in magnificent abundance. In clefts of rocks and hollow trees, the prudent and industrious bees formed their commonwealths, offering without interest to every hand the fruitful harvest of their delicious toil. The stately cork-trees voluntarily stripped themselves of their light extended bark, with which men began to cover their rural cottages, supported upon rustick poles, with a view only to defend themselves from the inclemencies of the weather. All was then peace, all was harmony, and all was friendship. As yet the ponderous coulter of the crooked plough had not presumed to open, or visit the pious entrails of our first mother, who, without compulsion, presented on every part of her wide and fertile bosom, every thing that could satisfy, sustain, and delight her sons, who then possessed her. Then did the simple and beautiful shepherdesses rove from hill to hill, and dale to dale, bare-headed, in their braided locks, without any other cloaths than what were necessary to cover modestly that which modesty commands, and always has commanded to be covered. Neither were their ornaments such as are used now-a-days, enhanced in value by the Tyrian purple, and the many-ways martyred silk, but composed of verdant dock-leaves, and ivy interwove together; with which they appeared, perhaps, with as great pomp and contrivance as the court ladies of our days, dressed in all the rare and foreign fashions which idle curiosity has invented. Then were the amorous dictates of the soul expressed in sensible simplicity, just as they were conceived, undisguised by the artificial cloak of specious words. There was no fraud, no deceit, no malice intermixed with plain dealing truth; justice then kept within her proper bounds, undisturbed and unbiased by interest and favour, which now impair, confound, and persecute, her so much; law was not then centered in the arbitrary bosom of the judge, for, at that time, there was neither cause nor contest. Damsels and decency, as I have already laid, went about single, and without fear of being injured by insolence or lust; and their ruin, when it happened, was the fruit of their own will and pleasure. But, now-a-days, in this detestable age, no maid is secure, though she was concealed and shut up in such another labyrinth as was that of Crete; for, even there, the amorous pestilence, with the zeal of mischievous importunity, would enter either by the help of wings, or by gliding through some chink or other, and all her barricadoed chastity would go to wreck. For the security of this virtue, in process of time, when mischief grew to a greater head, the order of knight-errantry was first instituted to defend damsels, protect widows, and succour the needy and the fatherless. This order, brother goatherds, I profess; and thank you for this kind entertainment and reception, which I and my squire have received at your hands; for though, by the law of nature, all mankind are obliged to favour and assist knights-errant, during the whole course of their lives; yet, as you have received and regaled me, before you knew yourselves to be under that obligation, I think it my duty to return my most sincere acknowledgment for your hospitality.’
The whole of this tedious harangue, which might very well have been spared, was pronounced by our knight, because the acorns they presented recalled to his memory the golden age: therefore he took it in his head to make these useless reflections to the goatherds; who, without answering one syllable, listened with suspence and astonishment. Sancho was also silent, but kept his teeth employed upon the acorns, and paid many a visit to the second wine-bag; which, that the contents might be the cooler, was hung upon a cork-tree. Don Quixote was less tedious in his discourse than at his meal, which being ended, one of the goatherds said, ‘That your worship, knight-errant, may be convinced of our readiness and good-will to give you all the entertainment in our power, you shall have the pleasure and satisfaction of hearing a song from one of our companions, who will soon be here. He is an understanding young fellow, very much in love, who, moreover, can read and write, and play upon the rebeck[51], that it will delight you to hear him.’ Scarce had the goatherd pronounced these words, when their ears were saluted with a sound of this instrument; and presently after appeared the musician, who was a young fellow of about twenty, or twenty two years of age, and of a very graceful appearance. His companions asked him if he had supped, and he answering in the affirmative, one of them, who made the offer to the knight, said to him, ‘If that be the case, Antonio, you will do us the pleasure to sing a song, that this gentleman, our guest, may see there are some, even among these woods and mountains, who understand musick. We have already informed him of thy uncommon talents, and we desire thou wouldst shew them, in order to justify what we have said in thy praise; I therefore earnestly beseech thee to sit down and sing the ballad of thy love, composed by thy uncle the curate, which is so much commended in our village.’—‘With all my heart,’ replied the young man; who, without farther entreaty, sat down upon the trunk of an ancient oak, and tuning his instrument, began in a very graceful manner to sing and accompany the following song.
I.
You love, Olalla, nay, adore me; In spite of all your art I know it, Although you never smile before me, And neither tongue nor eyes avow it.
II.
For, sure to slight a lover’s passion So try’d as that which lives this heart in, Were but small proof of penetration; And that you are no fool is certain.
III.
Sometimes, indeed, and ’tis amazing, Tho’ prov’d by evidence of twenty, You’ve plainly shewn your soul was brazen, And eke your snowy bosom flinty.
IV.
Yet in the midst of maiden shyness, Affected scorn and decent scolding, Kind Hope appear’d with proffer’d spy-glass, The border of her robe unfolding.
V.
Then balance in the scales of reason, My love unshaken and untainted, Unapt to change from truth to treason, By frowns impair’d, by smiles augmented.
VI.
If love be courtesy refin’d, And you be civil to profusion, That you will to my hopes prove kind, Is but a natural conclusion.
VII.
If gratitude that breast can soften, Which bids to other arts defiance, The services I’ve render’d often, Must melt your soul to kind compliance.
VIII.
For, more than once, had you attended, You might have seen me wear on Monday, My best apparel scower’d and mended, With which I wont to honour Sunday.
IX.
As love delights in finery, And women oft are won by tightness, I’ve still endeavour’d in your eye, To shine the mirror of politeness.
X.
That I have danc’d the swains among, To please your pride, what need I mention; Or with the cock begun my song, To wake my sleeping fair’s attention!
XI.
Or that, enamour’d of your beauty, I’ve loudly sounded forth its praises; A talk which, tho’ a lover’s duty, The spite of other women raises!
XII.
For, once, Teresa of the hill, Beneath all notice would have sunk ye, ‘You think Olalla angel still,’ Said she, ‘but others scorn the monkey.’
XIII.
‘Thanks to her beads of glittering glass, ‘And her false locks in ringlets curling, ‘And the false colour of her face, ‘Which Love himself might take for sterling.’
XIV.
She ly’d, I told her in her throat; And when her kinsman kept a racket, You know I made him change his note, And soundly thresh’d the booby’s jacket.
XV.
Your lovely person, not your wealth, At first engag’d my inclination; Nor would I now possess by stealth, The guilty joys of fornication.
XVI.
The church has silken ties in store, Then yield thy neck to Hymen’s fetters; Behold, I put my own before, And trust the noose that binds our betters.
XVII.
Else, by each blessed saint I swear, And Heav’n forbid I prove a liar! Never to quit this desart drear, Except in form of hooded friar[52].
Thus ended the goatherd’s ditty; and though Don Quixote desired him to sing another, yet Sancho Panza would by no means give his consent, being more inclined to take his natural rest than to hear ballads; and therefore, he said to his master, ‘Your worship had better consider where you are to lodge this night; for the labour that these honest men undergo in the day, will not suffer them to pass the night in singing.’—‘I understand thee, Sancho,’ replied the knight, ‘it plainly appears that the visits thou hast made to the wine-bag, demand the consolation of sleep, rather than that of musick.’—‘They agreed with us all very well, blessed be God!’ replied Sancho. ‘I do not deny it,’ said the knight; ‘and thou mayest bestow thyself in the best manner thou canst; but it is more seemly for those of my profession to watch than to sleep: it would not be amiss, however, Sancho, to dress my ear again; for it gives me more pain than I could wish.’ Sancho did as he desired: when one of the goatherds perceiving the wound, bade him give himself no trouble about it, for he would apply a remedy that would heal it in a trice: so saying, he took some leaves of rosemary, which grew in great plenty round the hut, and having chewed and mixed them with a little salt, applied the poultice to his ear; and binding it up carefully, assured him, as it actually happened, that it would need no other plaister.
Footnote 51:
A sort of small fiddle of one piece, with three strings, used by shepherds.
Footnote 52:
The reader will perceive that I have endeavoured to adapt the versification to the plainness and rusticity of the sentiment, which are preserved through the whole of this ballad; though all the other translators seem to have been bent upon setting the poetry at variance with the pastoral simplicity of the thoughts. For example, who would ever dream of a goatherd’s addressing his mistress in these terms?
‘With rapture on each charm I dwell, ‘And daily spread thy beauty’s fame; ‘And still my tongue thy praise shall tell, ‘Though envy swell, or malice blame.’
The original sentiments which this courtly stanza is designed to translate, are literally these:
‘I do not mention the praises I have spoke of your beauty, which, though true in fact, are the occasion of my being hated by some other women.’
CHAP. IV. WHAT WAS RELATED BY A GOATHERD, WHO CHANCED TO COME INTO THE HUT.
In the mean time, another of the lads, who brought them victuals from the village, entering the hut, said, ‘Do you know what has happened in our town, comrades?’ When one of them answered, ‘How should we!’ ‘Know, then,’ continued he, ‘that the famous student Chrysostom died this morning; and it is murmured about, that his death was occasioned by his love for that devilish girl Marcella, daughter of William the rich. She that roves about these plains in the habit of a shepherdess.’—‘For Marcella, said you!’ cried one. ‘The same,’ answered the goatherd; ‘and it is certain, that in his last will he ordered himself to be buried in the field like a Moor (God bless us!) at the foot of the rock, hard by the cork-tree spring; for, the report goes, and they say he said so himself, as how the first time he saw her was in that place; and he has also ordained many other such things as the clergy say must not be accomplished; nor is it right they should be accomplished; for, truly, they seem quite heathenish: to all which objections his dear friend, Ambrosio the student, who also dressed himself like a shepherd, to keep him company, replies, that he will perform every thing, without fail, that Chrysostom has ordered; and the whole village is in an uproar about it: but it is believed that every thing, at last, will be done according to the desire of Ambrosio, and all the rest of the shepherds, his friends; and that to-morrow he will be interred with great pomp in the very spot I have mentioned. I am resolved, therefore, as it will be a thing well worth seeing, to go thither without fail, even though I thought I should not be able to return to the village that night.’—‘We will do so too,’ replied the goatherds, ‘and cast lots to see which of us must stay and take care of our flocks.’—‘You are in the right, Pedro,’ said one; ‘but there will be no occasion to use that shift, for I myself will stay and take care of the whole; and you must not impute my tarrying to virtue, or the want of curiosity, but to the plaguy thorn that ran into my foot the other day, and hinders me from walking.’—‘We are obliged to thee, however,’ answered Pedro; whom Don Quixote desired to tell him who that same dead shepherd and living shepherdess were.
To this question the goatherd replied, all that he knew of the matter was, that the deceased was the son of a rich farmer, who lived in the neighbourhood of a village in these mountains; that he had studied in Salamanca many years, at the end of which he had returned to his family with the character of a great scholar: in particular, they said he was very knowing in the science of the stars, and what passed betwixt the sun and moon, and the heavens; for he had punctually foretold the clipse of them both! ‘The obscuration of those two great luminaries,’ said the knight, ‘is called the eclipse, and not the clipse, friend.’ But Pedro, without troubling his head with these trifles, proceeded, saying, ‘he likewise foresaw when the year would be plentiful or staril.’—‘You mean, sterile,’ said Don Quixote. ‘Sterile, or staril,’ replied Pedro, ‘comes all to the same purpose; and I say, that his father and his friends, taking his advice, became very rich: for they gave credit to his words, and followed his counsel in all things. When he would say, this year you must sow barley, and no wheat; here you must sow carabances, but no barley; next year there will be a good harvest of oil; but for three years to come there will not be a drop.’—‘That science,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘is called astrology.’—‘I know not how it is called,’ replied Pedro; ‘but this I know, that he knew all this, and much more. In short, not many months after he came from Salamanca, he appeared all of a sudden in shepherd-weeds, with his woolly jacket, and a flock of sheep, having laid aside the long dress of a student. And he was accompanied by a friend of his in the same habit, whose name was Ambrosio, and who had been his fellow student at college. I forgot to tell you that Chrysostom the defunct was such a great man at composing couplets, that he made carols for Christmas eve, and plays for the Lord’s-day, which were represented by the young men in our village; and every body said, that they were tip-top. When the people of the village saw the two scholars so suddenly cloathed like shepherds, they were surprized, and could not guess their reason for such an odd change. About that time the father of this Chrysostom dying, he inherited great riches, that were in moveables and in lands, with no small number of sheep, more or less, and a great deal of money: of all which this young man remained desolate lord and master: and truly he deserved it all; for he was an excellent companion, very charitable, a great friend to good folks, and had a most blessed countenance. Afterwards it came to be known, that his reason for changing his garb, was no other than with a view of strolling through the woods and desarts after that same shepherdess Marcella, whose name my friend mentioned just now, and with whom the poor defunct Chrysostom was woundily in love: and I will now tell you, for it is necessary that you should know who this wench is; for, mayhap, nay even without a mayhap, you never heard of such a thing in all the days of your life, though you be older than St. Paul[53].’—‘Say, Paul’s,’ replied Don Quixote, offended at the goatherd’s perverting the words. ‘Saint Paul was no chicken,’ replied Pedro; ‘and if your worship be resolved to correct my words every moment, we shall not have done in a twelvemonth.’—‘I ask your pardon friend,’ said the knight; ‘I only mention this, because there is a wide difference between the person of St. Paul, and a church that goes by his name: but, however, you made a very sensible reply; for, to be sure, the saint lived long before the church was built: therefore go on with your story, and I promise not to interrupt you again.’
‘Well, then, my good master,’ said the goatherd, ‘there lived in our village a farmer, still richer than Chrysostom’s father; his name was William, and God gave him, over and above great wealth, a daughter, who at her birth was the death of her mother, the most worthy dame in all the country. Methinks I see her now with that face of her’s, which seemed to have the sun on one side, and the moon on the other; she was an excellent housewife, and a great friend to the poor, for which reason I believe her soul is enjoying the presence of God in paradise. Her husband died of grief for the loss of so good a wife, leaving his daughter Marcella, young and rich, to the care of an uncle, who has got a living in our village. The girl grew up with so much beauty, that she put us in mind of her mother, who had a great share, and yet it was thought it would be surpassed by the daughter’s. It happened accordingly; for when she came to the age of fourteen or fifteen, nobody could behold her without blessing God, for having made so beautiful a creature; and every body almost grew desperately in love with her. Her uncle kept her up with great care; but, for all that, the fame of her exceeding beauty spread in such a manner, that both for her person and her fortune, not only the richest people in our town, but likewise in many leagues about, came to ask her in marriage of her uncle, with much importunity and felicitation. But he, who, to give him his due, was a good christian, although he wanted to dispose of her as soon as she came to the age fit for matrimony, would not give her away without her own consent; neither had he a view in deferring her marriage, to the gain and advantage which he might enjoy in managing the girl’s fortune. And truly I have heard this spoken in more companies than one, very much to the praise of the honest priest. For I would have you know, Sir traveller, that in these small towns people intermeddle and grumble about every thing. And this you may take for certain, as I know it to be so, that a clergyman must be excessively good indeed, if he can oblige his flock to speak well of him, especially in country villages.’—‘You are certainly in the right,’ said Don Quixote; ‘and pray go on, for your story is very entertaining; and you, honest Pedro, relate it with a good grace.’—‘May I never want God’s grace!’ said the shepherd; ‘for that is the main chance; and you must know, moreover, that though the uncle proposed to his niece, and described the good qualities of each in particular who asked her in marriage, desiring her to give her hand to some one or other, and chuse for herself; she never would give him any other answer, but that she did not chuse to marry, for she was too young to bear the burden of matrimony. On account of these excuses, which seemed to have some reason in them, her uncle forbore to importune her, and waited till she should have more years and discernment to make choice of her own company; for he said, and to be sure it was well said, that parents should never dispose of their children against their own inclinations. But behold, when we least thought of it, the timorous Marcella one day appeared in the habit of a shepherdess; and without imparting her design to her uncle, or any body in the village, for fear they might have dissuaded her from it, she took to the field with her own flock, in company of the other damsels of the village. As she now appeared in publick, and her beauty was exposed to the eyes of every body, you cannot conceive what a number of rich youths, gentlemen and farmers, immediately took the garb of Chrysostom, and went wooing her through the fields. One of these suitors, as you have heard, was the deceased, who, they say, left off loving to adore her; and you must not think, that because Marcella took to this free and unconfined way of living, she brought the least disparagement upon her chastity and good name; on the contrary, such is the vigilance with which she guards her honour, that of all those who serve and solicit her, not one has boasted, nor indeed can boast with any truth, that she has given him the smallest hope of accomplishing his desire; for though she neither flies, or avoids the company and conversation of the shepherds, but treats them in a courteous and friendly manner, whenever any one of them comes to disclose his intention, let it be ever so just and holy, even marriage itself, she throws him from her like a stone from a sling; and being of this disposition, does more damage in this country, than if a pestilence had seized it; for her affability and beauty allures all the hearts of those that converse with her to serve and love her, but her coyness and plain dealing drives them even to the borders of despair; therefore they know not what to say, but upbraid her with cruelty and ingratitude, and give her a great many such titles, as plainly shew the nature of her disposition: and if your worship was but to stay here one day, you would hear these hills and dales resound with the lamentations of her rejected followers. Not far from this place there is a tuft of about a dozen of tall beeches, upon every one of which you may read engraved the name of Marcella, and over some a crown cut out in the bark, as if her lover would have declared, that Marcella wears, and deserves to wear, the crown of all earthly beauty. Here one shepherd sighs, there another complains; in one place you may hear amorous ditties, in another the dirges of despair; one lover sits musing through all the hours of the night, at the foot of some tall ash or rugged rock, and there, without having closed his weeping eyes, shrunk up as it were, and intranced in his own reflections, he is found by the rising sun; a second, without giving respite or truce to his sighs, exposed to the heat of the most sultry summer’s sun, lies stretched upon the burning sand, breathing his complaints to pitying Heaven, and over this and that, and these and those, the free, the unconcerned, the fair Marcella triumphs. We who are acquainted with her disposition, wait with impatience to see the end of all this disdain, and long to know what happy man will tame such an unsociable humour, and enjoy such exceeding beauty. As every thing that I have recounted is true to a tittle, I have no reason to doubt the truth of what our comrades said concerning the cause of Chrysostom’s death; and therefore I advise you, Sir, not to fail being to-morrow at his burial, which will be well worth seeing; for Chrysostom had a great many friends, and the spot in which he ordered himself to be buried is not more than half a league from hence.’
‘I will take care to be present,’ said the knight, ‘and thank you heartily for the pleasure you have given me in relating such an interesting story.’—‘Oh! as for that,’ cried the goatherd, ‘I do not know one half of what has happened to the lovers of Marcella: but to-morrow, perhaps, we may light upon some shepherd on the road, who is better acquainted with them. In the mean time you will do well to go to sleep under some cover, for the cold night air may not agree with the hurt your jaws have received, though the remedy I have applied is such, that you have nothing else to fear.’
Sancho Panza, who wished the goatherd’s loquacity at the devil, earnestly intreated his master to go to sleep in Pedro’s hut. This request the knight complied with, and spent the greatest part of the night in thinking of his Lady Dulcinea, in imitation of Marcella’s lovers; while Sancho Panza, taking up his lodging betwixt Rozinante and his ass, slept soundly, not like a discarded lover, but like one who had been battered and bruised the day before.
Footnote 53:
In the original Spanish, the goatherd, instead of saying as old as Sarah, says, as old as Sarna, which in that language signifies the itch; but as it is impossible to preserve these mistakes in the translation, I have substituted another in its room, which I apprehend is equally natural and expressive.
CHAP. V. THE CONCLUSION OF THE STORY OF THE SHEPHERDESS MARCELLA, AND OTHER INCIDENTS.
Scarce had Aurora disclosed herself through the balconies of the east, when five of the six goatherds arising, went to waken Don Quixote, and told him, that if he continued in his resolution of going to see the famous funeral of Chrysostom, they would keep him company. The knight, who desired nothing better, arose, and commanded Sancho to saddle his horse and pannel his ass immediately. This order was executed with great dispatch, and they set out without loss of time. They had not travelled more than a quarter of a league, when, upon crossing a path, they saw coming towards them six shepherds, cloathed in jackets of black sheep-skin, and crowned with garlands of cypress and bitter-bay, each having a club of holly in his hand. Along with them came also two gentlemen on horseback, very well equipped for travel, accompanied by three young men on foot.
When they advanced they saluted one another, and understanding, upon inquiry, that they were all bound to the place of interment, they joined company, and travelled together. One of the horsemen said to his companion, ‘Signior Vivaldo, we shall not have reason to grudge our tarrying to see this famous funeral, which must certainly be very extraordinary, by the strange account we have received from these people, of the dead shepherd, and the murderous shepherdess.’—‘I am of the same opinion,’ answered Vivaldo; ‘and would not only tarry one day, but even four or five, on purpose to see it.’ Don Quixote asking what they had heard of Marcella and Chrysostom, the traveller replied, that early in the morning they had met with these shepherds, of whom inquiring the cause of their being cloathed in such melancholy weeds, they had been informed of the coyness and beauty of a certain shepherdess called Marcella, and the hapless love of many who courted her, together with the death of that same Chrysostom to whose funeral they were going. In short, he recounted every circumstance of what Pedro had told Don Quixote before.
This conversation being ended, another began by Vivaldo’s asking Don Quixote why he travelled thus in armour in a peaceable country. To this question the knight replied, ‘The exercise of my profession will not permit or allow me to go in any other manner. Revels, feasting, and repose, were invented by effeminate courtiers; but toil, anxiety, and arms, are peculiar to those whom the world calls knights-errant, of which order I, though unworthy, and the least, am one.’ He had no sooner pronounced these words, than all present took him for a madman; but, in order to confirm their opinion, and discover what kind of madness it was, Vivaldo desired to know what he meant by knights-errant. ‘What!’ said Don Quixote, ‘have you never read the annals and history of England, which treat of the famous exploits of Arthur, who, at present, in our Castilian language, is called King Artus, and of whom there is an ancient tradition, generally believed all over Great Britain, that he did not die, but was, by the art of inchantment, metamorphosed into a raven; and that the time will come when he shall return, and recover his sceptre and throne; for which reason it cannot be proved, that from that period to this, any Englishman has killed a raven. In the reign of that excellent king was instituted that famous order of chivalry, called the Knights of the Round Table; and those amours punctually happened, which are recounted of Don Lancelot of the Lake, with Queen Ginebra, by the help and mediation of that sage and venerable duenna Quitaniona, from whence that delightful ballad, so much sung in Spain, took its rise:
‘For never, sure, was any knight ‘So serv’d by damsel, or by dame, ‘As Lancelot, that man of might, ‘When he at first from Britain came.’
‘With the rest of that most relishing and delicious account of his amours and valiant exploits. From that time the order of knight-errantry was extended, as it were, from hand to hand, and spread through divers and sundry parts of the world, producing, among many other worthies celebrated for their atchievements, the valiant Amadis de Gaul, with all his sons and nephews, even to the fifth generation; the courageous Fleximarte of Hicarnia, the never-enough to be commended Tirante the White, and he whom, in this our age, we have as it were seen, heard, and conversed with, the invincible and valorous knight Don Belianis of Greece. This, gentlemen, is what I meant by knight-errant; and such as I have described is the order of chivalry, which, as I have already told you, I, though a sinner, have professed; and the very same which those knights I mentioned professed, I profess also. On which account I am found in these desarts and solitudes, in quest of adventures, fully determined to lift my arm, and expose my person, to the greatest danger that my destiny shall decree, in behalf of the needy and oppressed.’
By this declaration, the travellers were convinced that the knight had lost his wits, and easily perceived the species of folly which had taken possession of his brain, and which struck them with the same surprise that always seized those who became acquainted with our knight. Vivaldo, who was a person of discretion and a great deal of archness, in order to travel agreeably the rest of the road which they had to go till they should come to the place of interment, wanted to give him an opportunity of proceeding in his extravagance, and in that view said to him: ‘Sir knight-errant, methinks your worship professes one of the strictest orders upon earth; nay, I will affirm, more strict than that of the Carthusian friars.’
‘The order of the Carthusians,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘may be as strict, but, that it is as beneficial to mankind, I am within a hair’s breadth of doubting; for, to be plain with you, the soldier who executes his captain’s command, is no less valuable than the captain who gave the order. I mean, that the monks pray to God for their fellow-creatures in peace and safety; but we soldiers and knights put in execution that for which they pray, by the valour of our arms, and the edge of our swords; living under no other cover than the cope of heaven; set up in a manner as marks for the intolerable heat of the sun in summer, and the chilly breath of frosty winter; we are therefore God’s ministers, and the arms by which he executes his justice upon earth; and as the circumstances of war, and what has the least affinity and concern with it, cannot be accomplished without sweat, anxiety, and fatigue; it follows, that those who profess it, are doubtless more subject to toil, than those who in rest and security implore the favour of God for persons who can do nothing for themselves; not that I would be thought to say or imagine, the condition of a knight-errant is equal to that of a recluse monk; I would only infer from what we suffer, that it is without doubt more troublesome, more battered, more famished, more miserable, ragged, and lousy; for the knights-errant of past times certainly underwent numberless misfortunes in the course of their lives. And if some of them came to be emperors by the valour of their arms, considering the blood and sweat it cost them, in faith it was a dear purchase; and if those who attained such a supreme station, had been without their sage inchanters to assist them, they might have been defrauded by their desires, and grievously baulked of their expectations.’
‘I am very much of your opinion,’ answered the traveller; ‘but there is one thing among you knights-errant, that I cannot approve of, and that is, when any great and dangerous adventure occurs, in which you run a manifest risk of losing your lives, in the instant of an engagement, you never think of recommending your souls to God, as every Christian ought to do on such occasions; but, on the contrary, put up your petitions to your mistresses, with as much fervour and devotion as if they were your deities; a circumstance which, in my opinion, smells strong of paganism.’—‘Sir,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘that practice must in no degree be altered; and woe be to that knight-errant who should do otherwise; for, according to the practice and custom of chivalry, every knight, when he is upon the point of atchieving some great feat, must call up the idea of his mistress, and turning his eyes upon her with all the gentleness of love, implore, as it were, by his looks, her favour and protection in the doubtful dilemma in which he is about to involve himself: nay, even though nobody should hear him, he is obliged to mutter between his teeth an ejaculation, by which he heartily and confidently recommends himself to her good wishes: and of this practice we have innumerable examples in history; but I would not have you think, that we are to forbear recommending ourselves to God also; there will be time and opportunity enough for that duty in the course of action.’
‘But, nevertheless,’ said the traveller, ‘I have still one scruple remaining; which is, that I have often read of a dispute between two knights, which proceeding to rage from one word to another, they have turned about their steeds, to gain ground for a good career; and then, without any more ceremony, returned to the encounter at full gallop, recommending themselves to their mistresses by the way; and the common issue of such an engagement is, that one of them is thrown down by his horse’s crupper, stuck through and through with his adversary’s lance, while the other, with difficulty, avoids a fall by laying hold of his horse’s mane: now, I cannot comprehend how the dead man could have time to recommend himself to God, in the course of so sudden an attack; surely it would have been better for his soul, if, instead of the words he uttered in his career, he had put up a petition to Heaven, according to the duty and obligation of every Christian; especially, as I take it for granted that every knight-errant has not a mistress; for all of them cannot be in love.’—‘That’s impossible,’ answered Don Quixote. ‘I affirm, that there never could be a knight-errant without a mistress; for to be in love is as natural and peculiar to them, as the stars are to the heavens. I am very certain that you never read an history that gives an account of a knight-errant without an amour; for he that has never been in love, would not be held as a legitimate member, but some adulterate brood, who had got into the fortress of chivalry, not through the gate, but over the walls, like a thief in the night.’
‘Yet, notwithstanding,’ said the traveller, ‘I have read that Don Galaor, brother of the valiant Amadis de Gaul, never had any known mistress to whom he could recommend himself; and he was not disregarded, but looked upon as a very valiant and famous knight.’—‘Signior,’ answered our hero, Don Quixote, ‘one swallow makes not a summer; besides, to my certain knowledge, that knight was privately very much in love; indeed, he made love to every handsome woman who came in his way; for that was his natural disposition, which he by no means could resist: in short, it is very well attested, that he had one mistress, whom he enthroned as sovereign of his heart, and to whom he recommended himself with great caution and privacy, because he piqued himself upon being a secret knight.’
‘Since, then, it is essential to every knight to be in love, we may conclude that your worship, being of that profession, is no stranger to that passion: and if you do not value yourself upon being as secret a knight as Don Galaor, I earnestly entreat you, in behalf of myself, and the rest of the company, to tell us the name, country, station, and qualities of your mistress; who must think herself extremely happy in reflecting, that all the world knows how much she is beloved and adored by so valiant a knight as your worship appears to be.’
Here Don Quixote uttered a grievous sigh, saying, ‘I am not positively certain, whether or not that beauteous enemy of mine takes pleasure in the world’s knowing I am her slave; this only I can say, in answer to the question you asked with so much civility, that her name is Dulcinea; her native country, a certain part of La Mancha called Toboso; her station must at least be that of a princess, since she is queen and lady of my soul; her beauty supernatural, in that it justifies all those impossible and chimerical attributes of excellence, which the poets bestow upon their nymphs; her hair is of gold, her forehead the Elysian Fields, her eye-brows heavenly arches, her eyes themselves suns, her cheeks roses, her lips of coral, her teeth of pearl, her neck alabaster, her breast marble, her hands ivory, her skin whiter than snow; and those parts which decency conceals from human view are such, according my belief and apprehension, as discretion ought to enhance above all comparison.’
‘I wish we knew her lineage, race, and family,’ replied Vivaldo. To this hint the knight answered, ‘She is not descended of the ancient Caii, Curtii, and Scipios of Rome, nor of the modern Colonas and Orsini, nor of the Moncades and Requesenes of Catalonia, much less of the Rebellas and Villanovas of Valencia; or the Palafaxes, Newcas, Rocabertis, Corellas, Lunas, Alagones, Urreas, Fozes and Gurreas of Arragon; or the Cerdas, Manriquez, Mendozas and Gusmans of Castile; or the Alencastros, Pallas and Menesis of Portugal: but she sprung from the family of Tobosa de La Mancha: a lineage which, though modern, may give a noble rise to the most illustrious families of future ages; and let no man contradict what I say, except upon the conditions expressed in that inscription placed by Cerbino under the trophy of Orlando’s arms!
‘“That knight alone these arms shall move, ”Who dares Orlando’s prowess prove[54].”
‘Although I myself am descended from the Cachopines of Loredo[55],’ said the traveller, ‘I won’t presume to compare with that of Toboso de La Mancha; though, to be plain with you, I never before heard of any such generation.’—‘How, not heard!’ replied Don Quixote. The rest of the company jogged on, listening with great attention to this discourse, and all of them, even the goatherds, by this time were convinced, that our knight’s judgment was grievously impaired. Sancho alone believed that every thing his master said was true, because he knew his family, and had been acquainted with himself from his cradle. The only doubt that he entertained was of this same beautiful Dulcinea del Toboso; for never had such a name or such a princess come within the sphere of his observation, although he lived in the neighbourhood of that place.
While they travelled along, conversing in this manner, they perceived about twenty shepherds descend through a cleft made by two high mountains. They were all clad in jackets of black sheep-skin, and each of them crowned with a garland, which was composed, as we afterwards learned, partly of cypress, and partly of yew; six of the foremost carried a bier, upon which they had strewed a variety of branches and flowers. And this was no sooner perceived by one of the goatherds, than he said, ‘These are the people who carry the corpse of Chrysostom, and the foot of that mountain is the place where he ordered himself to be interred.’
Upon this information they made haste, and came up just at the time that the bearers having laid down the body, began to dig the grave with pick-axes on one side of a flinty rock. They received our travellers with great courtesy; and Don Quixote, with his company, went towards the bier to look at the dead body, which was covered with flowers, clad in shepherds weeds, and seemingly thirty years old. Notwithstanding he was dead, they could plainly perceive that he had been a man of an engaging aspect, and genteel stature; and could not help wondering at the sight of a great many papers, both sealed and loose, that lay round him in the coffin.
While the new-comers were observing this phænomenon, and the shepherds busied in digging a grave, a wonderful and universal silence prevailed, till such time as one of the bearers said to another, ‘Consider, Ambrosio, if this be the very spot which Chrysostom mentioned, that his last will may be punctually fulfilled.’—‘This,’ answered Ambrosio, ‘is the very place in which my unhappy friend has often recounted to me the story of his misfortunes. Here it was he first beheld that mortal enemy of the human race; here also did he first declare his amorous and honourable intention; and here, at last, did Marcella signify her disgust and disdain, which put an end to the tragedy of his wretched life; and in this place, as a monument of his mishap, did he desire to be deposited in the bowels of eternal oblivion.’
Then addressing himself to Don Quixote, and the travellers, he thus proceeded: ‘This corpse, gentlemen, which you behold with compassionate eyes, was the habitation of a soul which possessed an infinite share of the riches of Heaven: this is the body of Chrysostom, who was a man of unparalleled genius, the pink of courtesy and kindness; in friendship a very phœnix, liberal without bounds, grave without arrogance, gay without meanness, and in short second to none in every thing that was good, and without second in all that was unfortunate. He loved, and was abhorred; he adored and was disdained; he implored a savage; he importuned a statue; he hunted the wind; cried aloud to the desart; he was a slave to the most ungrateful of women; and the fruit of his servitude was death, which overtook him in the middle of his career; in short, he perished by the cruelty of a shepherdess, whom he has eternized in the memory of all the people in this country; as these papers which you gaze at would shew, if he had not ordered me to commit them to the flames as soon as his body shall be deposited in the earth.’
‘You will use them, then, with more cruelty and rigour,’ said Vivaldo, ‘than that of the author himself; seeing it is neither just nor convenient to fulfil the will of any man, provided it be unreasonable. Augustus Cæsar would have been in the wrong, had he consented to the execution of what the divine Mantuan ordered on his death-bed. Wherefore, Signior Ambrosio, while you commit the body of your friend to the earth, you ought not likewise to consign his writings to oblivion; nor perform indiscreetly what he in his affliction ordained; on the contrary, by publishing these papers, you ought to immortalize the cruelty of Marcella, that it may serve as an example in time to come, and warn young men to shun and avoid such dangerous precipices; for I, and the rest of this company, already know the history of that enamoured and unhappy friend, the nature of your friendship, the occasion of his death, together with the orders that he left upon his death-bed: from which lamentable story, it is easy to conclude how excessive must have been the cruelty of Marcella, the love of Chrysostom, the faith of your friendship, and the check which those receive, who precipitately run through the path exhibited to them by idle and mischievous love. Last night, we understood the death of Chrysostom, who, we are informed, was to be buried in this place; and therefore, out of curiosity and concern, have turned out of our way, resolving to come and see with our eyes, what had affected us so much in the hearing; and in return for that concern, and the desire we felt in remedying it, if it had been in our power, we entreat thee, O discreet Ambrosio! at least, for my own part, I beg of thee, not to burn these papers, but allow me to preserve some of them.’
Accordingly, without staying for an answer, he reached out his hand, and took some of those that were nearest him; which Ambrosio perceiving, said, ‘Out of civility, Signior, I will consent to your keeping what you have taken up; but to think that I will fail to burn the rest, is a vain supposition.’ Vivaldo being desirous of seeing the contents, immediately opened one, intitled, A Song of Despair; which Ambrosio hearing, said, ‘That is the last poem my unhappy friend composed; and that you may see, Signior, to what a pass his misfortunes had reduced him, read it aloud, and you’ll have time enough to finish it before the grave be made!’—‘That I will do with all my heart,’ said Vivaldo; and every body present being seized with the same desire, they stood around him in a circle, and he read what follows, with an audible voice.
A SONG OF DESPAIR.
I.
Since then, thy pleasure, cruel maid! Is, that thy rigour and disdain Should be from clime to clime convey’d, All hell shall aid me to complain! The torments of my heart to tell, And thy achievements to record, My voice shall raise a dreadful yell, My bowels burst at every word: Then listen to the baleful sound That issues from my throbbing breast, Thy pride, perhaps, it may confound, And yield my madd’ning soul some rest.
II.
Let the snake’s hiss and wolf’s dire howl, The bull’s harsh note, the lion’s roar, The boding crow and screeching owl, The tempest rattling on the shore, The monster’s scream, the turtle’s moan, The shrieks of the infernal crew, Be mingled with my dying groan, A concert terrible and new! The hearer’s senses to appal, And Reason from her throne depose; Such melody will suit the gall That from my burning liver flows!
III.
Old Tagus with his yellow hair, And Betis with her olive wreath, Shall never echo such despair, Or listen to such notes of death, As here I’ll utter and repeat, From hill to dale, from rock to cave, In wilds untrod by human feet, In dungeons dreary as the grave. The beasts of prey that scour the plain, Shall thy more savage nature know, The spacious earth resound my strain; Such is the privilege of woe!
IV.
Disdain is death, and doubt o’erturns The patience of the firmest mind; But jealousy still fiercer burns, Like all the flames of hell combin’d! The horrors of that cursed fiend, In absence to distraction rage, And all the succour hope can lend, The direful pangs will not assuage. Such agonies will surely kill; Yet spite of absence, doubts and scorn, I live a miracle, and still Those deadly flames within me burn!
V.
Hope’s shadow ne’er refresh’d my view, Despair attends with wakeful strife; The first let happier swains pursue, The last my consort is for life. Can hope and fear at once prevail, When fear on certainty is fed? To shut mine eyes will nought avail, When thunder bursts around my head, When cold Disdain in native dye Appears, and Falshood’s cunning lore Perverts the tale of Truth, shall I Against Despondence shut the door?
VI.
O jealousy! love’s tyrant lord, And thou, soul-chilling, dire disdain! Lend me the dagger and the cord, To stab remembrance, strangle pain. I die bereft of hope in death, Yet still those are the freest souls, (I’ll vouch it with my latest breath) Whom love’s old tyranny controuls. My fatal enemy is fair, In body and in mind, I’ll say, And I have earn’d the woes I bear: By rigour love maintains the sway.
VII.
With this opinion let me fall A prey to unrelenting scorn; No fun’ral pomp shall grace my pall, No laurel my pale corpse adorn. O thou! whose cruelty and hate The tortures of my breast proclaim, Behold how willingly to fate I offer this devoted frame. If thou, when I am past all pain, Should’st think my fall deserves a tear, Let not one single drop distain Those eyes so killing and so clear.
VIII.
No! rather let thy mirth display The joys that in thy bosom flow; Ah! need I bid that heart be gay Which always triumph’d in my woe! Come then, for ever barr’d of bliss, Ye, who with ceaseless torment dwell, And agonizing, howl and hiss In the profoundest shades of hell: Come, Tantalus, with raging thirst, Bring, Sysiphus, thy rolling stone, Come, Titius, with thy vulture curst, Nor leave Ixion rack’d alone.
IX.
The toiling sisters too shall join, And my sad, solemn dirge repeat, When to the grave my friends consign These limbs deny’d a winding-sheet; Fierce Cerberus shall clank his chain, In chorus with chimæras dire: What other pomp, what other strain, Should he who dies of love require? Be hush’d, my song, complain no more Of her whose pleasure gave thee birth; But let the sorrows I deplore Sleep with me in the silent earth.
This ditty of Chrysostom was approved by all the hearers; but he who read it observed, that it did not seem to agree with the report he had heard of Marcella’s virtue and circumspection; inasmuch as the author complained of jealousy, absence, and suspicion, which tended to the prejudice of her morals and reputation. To this objection, Ambrosio, as one that was acquainted with the most secret sentiments of his friend, answered, ‘Signior, for your satisfaction in this point, it is necessary you should know, that the forlorn shepherd composed this song in the absence of Marcella, from whose presence he had gone into voluntary exile, in order to try if he could reap the usual fruits of absence, and forget the cause of his despair; and as one in that situation is apt to be fretted by every circumstance, and invaded by every apprehension, poor Chrysostom was harassed by groundless jealousy and imaginary fears, which tormented him as much as if they had been real; for which reason, this circumstance ought not to invalidate the fame of Marcella’s virtue, against which, exclusive of her cruelty, arrogance, and disdain, envy itself hath not been able to lay the least imputation.’
‘That may be very true,’ replied Vivaldo; who, being about to read another of the papers he had saved from the flames, was diverted from his purpose by a wonderful vision, for such it seemed, that all of a sudden presented itself to their eyes. This was no other than the shepherdess Marcella, who appeared upon the top of the rock, just above the grave they were digging, so beautiful that she surpassed all report. Those who had never seen her before, gazed with silent admiration; nor were the rest, who had been accustomed to see her, less astonished at her appearance. But no sooner did Ambrosio perceive her, than with indignation in his looks, he cried—
‘Comest thou hither, fierce basilisk of these mountains! to see if the wounds of this unhappy youth whom thy cruelty hath slain, will bleed at thy approach? or art thou come to rejoice in the exploits of thy barbarity, and from the top of that mountain, behold, like another Nero, the flames which thy impiety hath kindled? or inhumanly to trample upon this unfortunate corpse, as the unnatural daughter insulted the dead body of her father Tarquin? Tell us at once the cause of thy approach, and deign to signify thy pleasure, that I who know how devoutly Chrysostom obeyed thee, when alive, may, now that he is dead, dispose his friends to yield the same obedience.’
‘I come not,’ answered Marcella, for any of the purposes you have mentioned, Ambrosio; but rather personally to demonstrate how unreasonably people blame me for their own affliction, as well as for the death and sufferings of Chrysostom. I beg, therefore, that all present will give me the hearing, as it will be unnecessary to spend much time, or waste many words, to convince those that are unprejudiced of the truth. Heaven, you say, hath given me beauty, nay, such a share of it, as compels you to love me, in spite of your resolutions to the contrary; from whence you draw this inference, and insist upon it, that it is my duty to return your passion. By the help of that small capacity which nature has bestowed upon me, I know that which is beautiful is lovely; but I can by no means conceive, why the object which is beloved for being beautiful, is bound to be enamoured of its admirer; more especially, as it may happen that this same admirer is an object of disgust and abhorrence; in which case would it be reasonable in him to say, “I love thee because thou art beautiful, and thou must favour my passion, although I am deformed?” But granting the beauty equal on both sides, it does not follow that the desires ought to be mutual; for all sorts of beauty do not equally affect the spectator; some, for example, delighting the eye only, without captivating the heart. And well it is for mankind, that things are thus disposed; otherwise there would be a strange perplexity and confusion of desires, without power of distinguishing and chusing particular objects; for beauty being infinitely diversified, the inclination would be infinitely divided: and I have heard, that true love must be undivided and unconstrained; if this be the case, as I believe it is, why should I constrain my inclination, when I am under no other obligation so to do, but your saying that you are in love with me? Otherwise tell me, if Heaven that made me handsome, had created me a monster of deformity, should I have had cause to complain of you for not loving me? Besides, you are to consider, that I did not chuse the beauty I possess; such as it is, God was pleased of his own free will and favour to bestow it upon me, without any solicitation on my part. Therefore, as the viper deserves no blame for its sting, although it be mortal, because it is the gift of nature; neither ought I to be reviled for being beautiful: for beauty in a virtuous woman, is like a distant flame and a sharp sword afar off, which prove fatal to none but those who approach too near them. Honour and virtue are the ornaments of the soul; without which the body, though never so handsome, ought to seem ugly. If chastity then be one of the virtues which chiefly adorns and beautifies both body and soul, why should she that is beloved, lose that jewel for which she is chiefly beloved, merely to satisfy the appetite of one who, for his own selfish enjoyment, employs his whole care and industry to destroy it? I was born free; and to enjoy that freedom, have I chosen the solitude of these fields. The trees on these mountains are my companions; and I have no other mirror than the limpid streams of these crystal brooks. With the trees and the streams I share my contemplation and my beauty; I am a distant flame, and a sword afar off; those whom my eyes have captivated, my tongue has undeceived; and if hope be the food of desire, as I gave none to Chrysostom, or to any other person, so neither can his death, nor that of any other of my admirers, be justly imputed to my cruelty, but rather, to their own obstinate despair. To those who observe that his intentions were honourable, and that therefore I was bound to comply with them, I answer, when he declared the honesty of his designs in that very spot where now his grave is digging, I told him, my purpose was to live in perpetual solitude, and let the earth alone enjoy the fruits of my retirement, and the spoils of my beauty: wherefore, if he, notwithstanding this my explanation, persevered without hope, and sailed against the wind; it is no wonder that he was overwhelmed in the gulph of his rashness. Had I cajoled him, I should have been perfidious; had I gratified his inclination, I should have acted contrary to my own reason and resolution. But because he persisted after I had explained myself, and despaired before he had cause to think I abhorred him, I leave you to judge whether or not it be reasonable to lay his misfortune at my door. Let him whom I have deceived complain, and let him despair to whom I have broke my promise; if I call upon any man, he may depend upon me; if I admit of his addresses, he may rejoice in his success: but why should I be stiled a barbarous homicide by him whom I never soothed, deceived, called, or admitted? Hitherto Heaven has not thought fit that I should love by destiny; and the world must excuse me from loving by election. Let this general declaration serve as an answer to all those who solicit me in particular, and henceforward give them to understand, that whosoever dies for me, perishes not by jealousy or disdain, for she who never gave her love, can never give just cause of jealousy; neither ought her plain-dealing to be interpreted into disdain. Let him who terms me a fierce basilisk, shun me as an evil being; if any man thinks me ungrateful, let him refuse his services when I ask them. If I have disowned any one, let him renounce me in his turn; and let him who has found me cruel, abandon me in my distress; this fierce basilisk, this ungrateful, cruel, supercilious wretch, will neither seek, serve, own, nor follow you, in any shape whatever. If Chrysostom perished by the impatience of his own extravagant desire, why should my innocent reserve be inveighed against? If I have preserved my virginity in these desarts, why should he that loves me, wish to see me lose it among mankind! I have riches of my own, as you all know, and covet no man’s wealth. I am free, and will not be subjected; I neither love nor hate any man; I do not cajole this one, nor teaze that, nor do I joke with one, or discourse with another; but amuse myself with the care of my goats, and the innocent conversation of the shepherdesses belonging to the neighbouring villages. My desires are bounded by these mountains; or if my meditation surpasses these bounds, it is only to contemplate the beauty of the heavens, those steps by which the soul ascends to its original mansion.’ So saying, without waiting for any reply, she turned her back, and vanished into a thicket on a neighbouring mountain, leaving all that were present equally surprized with her beauty and discretion.
Some of the by-standers being wounded by the powerful shafts that were darted from her fair eyes, manifested an inclination to follow her, without availing themselves of the ingenuous declaration they had heard; which being perceived by Don Quixote, who thought this a proper occasion for exercising his chivalry in defence of distressed damsels; he laid his hand upon the hilt of his sword, and in a lofty and audible voice, pronounced, ‘Let no person, of whatsoever rank or degree, presume to follow the beautiful Marcella, on pain of incurring my most furious indignation. She has demonstrated, by clear and undeniable arguments, how little, if at all, she is to be blamed for the death of Chrysostom; and how averse she is to comply with the desires of any of her admirers; for which reason, instead of being pursued and persecuted, she ought to be honoured and esteemed by all virtuous men, as the only person in the universe who lives in such a chaste and laudable intention.’ Whether it was owing to these menaces of the knight, or to the advice of Ambrose, who desired them to perform the last office to their deceased friend, not one of the shepherds attempted to stir from the spot, until the grave being finished, and the papers burnt, the body of poor Chrysostom was interred, not without abundance of tears shed by his surviving companions. The grave was secured by a large fragment of the rock which they rolled upon it, till such time as a tomb-stone could be made, under the direction of Ambrose, who was resolved to have the following epitaph engraved upon it.
The body of a wretched swain, Kill’d by a cruel maid’s disdain, In this cold bed neglected lies. He liv’d, fond hapless youth! to prove, Th’ inhuman tyranny of love, Exerted in Marcella’s eyes.
Having strewed the place with a profusion of flowers and branches, every body present condoled, and took leave of the afflicted executor; and Don Quixote bade farewel to his kind landlords, as well as to the travellers, who would have persuaded him to accompany them to Seville, which they said was a city so well adapted for adventures, that they occurred in every street, nay, at the corner of every blind alley. Our hero thanked them most courteously for their advice, and the inclination they expressed to give him pleasure; but assured them, he neither could nor would set out for Seville, until he should have cleared these desarts of the robbers and banditti, of whom they were reported to be full.
The travellers seeing him thus laudably determined, importuned him no farther, but, taking leave of him anew, pursued their journey, during which they did not fail to discuss the story of Marcella and Chrysostom, as well as the madness of Don Quixote; who, on his part, resolved to go in quest of the shepherdess, and offer her all the service in his power: but this scheme did not turn out according to his expectation, as will be related in the course of this faithful history, the second book of which is here concluded.
END OF THE SECOND BOOK.
Footnote 54:
When a knight challenged the whole world, he wore an emprize, consisting of a gold chain, or some other badge of love and chivalry; and sometimes this emprize was fixed in a publick place, to attract the attention of strangers. When any person accepted the challenge for a trial of chivalry, called the combat of courtesy, he touched this emprize; but, if he tore it away, it was considered as a resolution to fight the owner to extremity or outrance. The combat of courtesy is still practised by our prize-fighters and boxers, who shake hands before the engagement, in token of love.
But no defiance of this kind could be either published or accepted without the permission of the prince at whose court the combatants chanced to be. Accordingly, we are told by Oliver de La Marche, that the lord of Ternant having published a defiance at the court of Burgundy, in the year 1445, Galiot asked the duke’s permission to touch the challenger’s emprize; which being granted, he advanced and touched it, saying to the bearer, while he bowed very low, ‘Noble knight, I touch your emprize; and, with God’s permission, will do my utmost to fulfil your desire, either on horseback or on foot.’ The lord of Ternant humbly thanked him for his condescension, said he was extremely welcome, and promised to send him that same day a cartel, mentioning the arms they should use.
Footnote 55:
Cachopines is the name given to the Europeans by the Indians of Mexico.