The History of Don Quixote, Volume II., Complete
by
Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra
Part 9 out of 10
CHAPTER LIX.
WHEREIN IS RELATED THE STRANGE THING, WHICH MAY BE REGARDED AS AN
ADVENTURE, THAT HAPPENED DON QUIXOTE
A clear limpid spring which they discovered in a cool grove relieved Don
Quixote and Sancho of the dust and fatigue due to the unpolite behaviour
of the bulls, and by the side of this, having turned Dapple and Rocinante
loose without headstall or bridle, the forlorn pair, master and man,
seated themselves. Sancho had recourse to the larder of his alforjas and
took out of them what he called the prog; Don Quixote rinsed his mouth
and bathed his face, by which cooling process his flagging energies were
revived. Out of pure vexation he remained without eating, and out of pure
politeness Sancho did not venture to touch a morsel of what was before
him, but waited for his master to act as taster. Seeing, however, that,
absorbed in thought, he was forgetting to carry the bread to his mouth,
he said never a word, and trampling every sort of good breeding under
foot, began to stow away in his paunch the bread and cheese that came to
his hand.
"Eat, Sancho my friend," said Don Quixote; "support life, which is of
more consequence to thee than to me, and leave me to die under the pain
of my thoughts and pressure of my misfortunes. I was born, Sancho, to
live dying, and thou to die eating; and to prove the truth of what I say,
look at me, printed in histories, famed in arms, courteous in behaviour,
honoured by princes, courted by maidens; and after all, when I looked
forward to palms, triumphs, and crowns, won and earned by my valiant
deeds, I have this morning seen myself trampled on, kicked, and crushed
by the feet of unclean and filthy animals. This thought blunts my teeth,
paralyses my jaws, cramps my hands, and robs me of all appetite for food;
so much so that I have a mind to let myself die of hunger, the cruelest
death of all deaths."
"So then," said Sancho, munching hard all the time, "your worship does
not agree with the proverb that says, 'Let Martha die, but let her die
with a full belly.' I, at any rate, have no mind to kill myself; so far
from that, I mean to do as the cobbler does, who stretches the leather
with his teeth until he makes it reach as far as he wants. I'll stretch
out my life by eating until it reaches the end heaven has fixed for it;
and let me tell you, senor, there's no greater folly than to think of
dying of despair as your worship does; take my advice, and after eating
lie down and sleep a bit on this green grass-mattress, and you will see
that when you awake you'll feel something better."
Don Quixote did as he recommended, for it struck him that Sancho's
reasoning was more like a philosopher's than a blockhead's, and said he,
"Sancho, if thou wilt do for me what I am going to tell thee my ease of
mind would be more assured and my heaviness of heart not so great; and it
is this; to go aside a little while I am sleeping in accordance with thy
advice, and, making bare thy carcase to the air, to give thyself three or
four hundred lashes with Rocinante's reins, on account of the three
thousand and odd thou art to give thyself for the disenchantment of
Dulcinea; for it is a great pity that the poor lady should be left
enchanted through thy carelessness and negligence."
"There is a good deal to be said on that point," said Sancho; "let us
both go to sleep now, and after that, God has decreed what will happen.
Let me tell your worship that for a man to whip himself in cold blood is
a hard thing, especially if the stripes fall upon an ill-nourished and
worse-fed body. Let my lady Dulcinea have patience, and when she is least
expecting it, she will see me made a riddle of with whipping, and 'until
death it's all life;' I mean that I have still life in me, and the desire
to make good what I have promised."
Don Quixote thanked him, and ate a little, and Sancho a good deal, and
then they both lay down to sleep, leaving those two inseparable friends
and comrades, Rocinante and Dapple, to their own devices and to feed
unrestrained upon the abundant grass with which the meadow was furnished.
They woke up rather late, mounted once more and resumed their journey,
pushing on to reach an inn which was in sight, apparently a league off. I
say an inn, because Don Quixote called it so, contrary to his usual
practice of calling all inns castles. They reached it, and asked the
landlord if they could put up there. He said yes, with as much comfort
and as good fare as they could find in Saragossa. They dismounted, and
Sancho stowed away his larder in a room of which the landlord gave him
the key. He took the beasts to the stable, fed them, and came back to see
what orders Don Quixote, who was seated on a bench at the door, had for
him, giving special thanks to heaven that this inn had not been taken for
a castle by his master. Supper-time came, and they repaired to their
room, and Sancho asked the landlord what he had to give them for supper.
To this the landlord replied that his mouth should be the measure; he had
only to ask what he would; for that inn was provided with the birds of
the air and the fowls of the earth and the fish of the sea.
"There's no need of all that," said Sancho; "if they'll roast us a couple
of chickens we'll be satisfied, for my master is delicate and eats
little, and I'm not over and above gluttonous."
The landlord replied he had no chickens, for the kites had stolen them.
"Well then," said Sancho, "let senor landlord tell them to roast a
pullet, so that it is a tender one."
"Pullet! My father!" said the landlord; "indeed and in truth it's only
yesterday I sent over fifty to the city to sell; but saving pullets ask
what you will."
"In that case," said Sancho, "you will not be without veal or kid."
"Just now," said the landlord, "there's none in the house, for it's all
finished; but next week there will be enough and to spare."
"Much good that does us," said Sancho; "I'll lay a bet that all these
short-comings are going to wind up in plenty of bacon and eggs."
"By God," said the landlord, "my guest's wits must be precious dull; I
tell him I have neither pullets nor hens, and he wants me to have eggs!
Talk of other dainties, if you please, and don't ask for hens again."
"Body o' me!" said Sancho, "let's settle the matter; say at once what you
have got, and let us have no more words about it."
"In truth and earnest, senor guest," said the landlord, "all I have is a
couple of cow-heels like calves' feet, or a couple of calves' feet like
cowheels; they are boiled with chick-peas, onions, and bacon, and at this
moment they are crying 'Come eat me, come eat me."
"I mark them for mine on the spot," said Sancho; "let nobody touch them;
I'll pay better for them than anyone else, for I could not wish for
anything more to my taste; and I don't care a pin whether they are feet
or heels."
"Nobody shall touch them," said the landlord; "for the other guests I
have, being persons of high quality, bring their own cook and caterer and
larder with them."
"If you come to people of quality," said Sancho, "there's nobody more so
than my master; but the calling he follows does not allow of larders or
store-rooms; we lay ourselves down in the middle of a meadow, and fill
ourselves with acorns or medlars."
Here ended Sancho's conversation with the landlord, Sancho not caring to
carry it any farther by answering him; for he had already asked him what
calling or what profession it was his master was of.
Supper-time having come, then, Don Quixote betook himself to his room,
the landlord brought in the stew-pan just as it was, and he sat himself
down to sup very resolutely. It seems that in another room, which was
next to Don Quixote's, with nothing but a thin partition to separate it,
he overheard these words, "As you live, Senor Don Jeronimo, while they
are bringing supper, let us read another chapter of the Second Part of
'Don Quixote of La Mancha.'"
The instant Don Quixote heard his own name be started to his feet and
listened with open ears to catch what they said about him, and heard the
Don Jeronimo who had been addressed say in reply, "Why would you have us
read that absurd stuff, Don Juan, when it is impossible for anyone who
has read the First Part of the history of 'Don Quixote of La Mancha' to
take any pleasure in reading this Second Part?"
"For all that," said he who was addressed as Don Juan, "we shall do well
to read it, for there is no book so bad but it has something good in it.
What displeases me most in it is that it represents Don Quixote as now
cured of his love for Dulcinea del Toboso."
On hearing this Don Quixote, full of wrath and indignation, lifted up his
voice and said, "Whoever he may be who says that Don Quixote of La Mancha
has forgotten or can forget Dulcinea del Toboso, I will teach him with
equal arms that what he says is very far from the truth; for neither can
the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso be forgotten, nor can forgetfulness have
a place in Don Quixote; his motto is constancy, and his profession to
maintain the same with his life and never wrong it."
"Who is this that answers us?" said they in the next room.
"Who should it be," said Sancho, "but Don Quixote of La Mancha himself,
who will make good all he has said and all he will say; for pledges don't
trouble a good payer."
Sancho had hardly uttered these words when two gentlemen, for such they
seemed to be, entered the room, and one of them, throwing his arms round
Don Quixote's neck, said to him, "Your appearance cannot leave any
question as to your name, nor can your name fail to identify your
appearance; unquestionably, senor, you are the real Don Quixote of La
Mancha, cynosure and morning star of knight-errantry, despite and in
defiance of him who has sought to usurp your name and bring to naught
your achievements, as the author of this book which I here present to you
has done;" and with this he put a book which his companion carried into
the hands of Don Quixote, who took it, and without replying began to run
his eye over it; but he presently returned it saying, "In the little I
have seen I have discovered three things in this author that deserve to
be censured. The first is some words that I have read in the preface; the
next that the language is Aragonese, for sometimes he writes without
articles; and the third, which above all stamps him as ignorant, is that
he goes wrong and departs from the truth in the most important part of
the history, for here he says that my squire Sancho Panza's wife is
called Mari Gutierrez, when she is called nothing of the sort, but Teresa
Panza; and when a man errs on such an important point as this there is
good reason to fear that he is in error on every other point in the
history."
"A nice sort of historian, indeed!" exclaimed Sancho at this; "he must
know a deal about our affairs when he calls my wife Teresa Panza, Mari
Gutierrez; take the book again, senor, and see if I am in it and if he
has changed my name."
"From your talk, friend," said Don Jeronimo, "no doubt you are Sancho
Panza, Senor Don Quixote's squire."
"Yes, I am," said Sancho; "and I'm proud of it."
"Faith, then," said the gentleman, "this new author does not handle you
with the decency that displays itself in your person; he makes you out a
heavy feeder and a fool, and not in the least droll, and a very different
being from the Sancho described in the First Part of your master's
history."
"God forgive him," said Sancho; "he might have left me in my corner
without troubling his head about me; 'let him who knows how ring the
bells; 'Saint Peter is very well in Rome.'"
The two gentlemen pressed Don Quixote to come into their room and have
supper with them, as they knew very well there was nothing in that inn
fit for one of his sort. Don Quixote, who was always polite, yielded to
their request and supped with them. Sancho stayed behind with the stew.
and invested with plenary delegated authority seated himself at the head
of the table, and the landlord sat down with him, for he was no less fond
of cow-heel and calves' feet than Sancho was.
While at supper Don Juan asked Don Quixote what news he had of the lady
Dulcinea del Toboso, was she married, had she been brought to bed, or was
she with child, or did she in maidenhood, still preserving her modesty
and delicacy, cherish the remembrance of the tender passion of Senor Don
Quixote?
To this he replied, "Dulcinea is a maiden still, and my passion more
firmly rooted than ever, our intercourse unsatisfactory as before, and
her beauty transformed into that of a foul country wench;" and then he
proceeded to give them a full and particular account of the enchantment
of Dulcinea, and of what had happened him in the cave of Montesinos,
together with what the sage Merlin had prescribed for her disenchantment,
namely the scourging of Sancho.
Exceedingly great was the amusement the two gentlemen derived from
hearing Don Quixote recount the strange incidents of his history; and if
they were amazed by his absurdities they were equally amazed by the
elegant style in which he delivered them. On the one hand they regarded
him as a man of wit and sense, and on the other he seemed to them a
maundering blockhead, and they could not make up their minds whereabouts
between wisdom and folly they ought to place him.
Sancho having finished his supper, and left the landlord in the X
condition, repaired to the room where his master was, and as he came in
said, "May I die, sirs, if the author of this book your worships have got
has any mind that we should agree; as he calls me glutton (according to
what your worships say) I wish he may not call me drunkard too."
"But he does," said Don Jeronimo; "I cannot remember, however, in what
way, though I know his words are offensive, and what is more, lying, as I
can see plainly by the physiognomy of the worthy Sancho before me."
"Believe me," said Sancho, "the Sancho and the Don Quixote of this
history must be different persons from those that appear in the one Cide
Hamete Benengeli wrote, who are ourselves; my master valiant, wise, and
true in love, and I simple, droll, and neither glutton nor drunkard."
"I believe it," said Don Juan; "and were it possible, an order should be
issued that no one should have the presumption to deal with anything
relating to Don Quixote, save his original author Cide Hamete; just as
Alexander commanded that no one should presume to paint his portrait save
Apelles."
"Let him who will paint me," said Don Quixote; "but let him not abuse me;
for patience will often break down when they heap insults upon it."
"None can be offered to Senor Don Quixote," said Don Juan, "that he
himself will not be able to avenge, if he does not ward it off with the
shield of his patience, which, I take it, is great and strong."
A considerable portion of the night passed in conversation of this sort,
and though Don Juan wished Don Quixote to read more of the book to see
what it was all about, he was not to be prevailed upon, saying that he
treated it as read and pronounced it utterly silly; and, if by any chance
it should come to its author's ears that he had it in his hand, he did
not want him to flatter himself with the idea that he had read it; for
our thoughts, and still more our eyes, should keep themselves aloof from
what is obscene and filthy.
They asked him whither he meant to direct his steps. He replied, to
Saragossa, to take part in the harness jousts which were held in that
city every year. Don Juan told him that the new history described how Don
Quixote, let him be who he might, took part there in a tilting at the
ring, utterly devoid of invention, poor in mottoes, very poor in costume,
though rich in sillinesses.
"For that very reason," said Don Quixote, "I will not set foot in
Saragossa; and by that means I shall expose to the world the lie of this
new history writer, and people will see that I am not the Don Quixote he
speaks of."
"You will do quite right," said Don Jeronimo; "and there are other jousts
at Barcelona in which Senor Don Quixote may display his prowess."
"That is what I mean to do," said Don Quixote; "and as it is now time, I
pray your worships to give me leave to retire to bed, and to place and
retain me among the number of your greatest friends and servants."
"And me too," said Sancho; "maybe I'll be good for something."
With this they exchanged farewells, and Don Quixote and Sancho retired to
their room, leaving Don Juan and Don Jeronimo amazed to see the medley he
made of his good sense and his craziness; and they felt thoroughly
convinced that these, and not those their Aragonese author described,
were the genuine Don Quixote and Sancho. Don Quixote rose betimes, and
bade adieu to his hosts by knocking at the partition of the other room.
Sancho paid the landlord magnificently, and recommended him either to say
less about the providing of his inn or to keep it better provided.
CHAPTER LX.
OF WHAT HAPPENED DON QUIXOTE ON HIS WAY TO BARCELONA
It was a fresh morning giving promise of a cool day as Don Quixote
quitted the inn, first of all taking care to ascertain the most direct
road to Barcelona without touching upon Saragossa; so anxious was he to
make out this new historian, who they said abused him so, to be a liar.
Well, as it fell out, nothing worthy of being recorded happened him for
six days, at the end of which, having turned aside out of the road, he
was overtaken by night in a thicket of oak or cork trees; for on this
point Cide Hamete is not as precise as he usually is on other matters.
Master and man dismounted from their beasts, and as soon as they had
settled themselves at the foot of the trees, Sancho, who had had a good
noontide meal that day, let himself, without more ado, pass the gates of
sleep. But Don Quixote, whom his thoughts, far more than hunger, kept
awake, could not close an eye, and roamed in fancy to and fro through all
sorts of places. At one moment it seemed to him that he was in the cave
of Montesinos and saw Dulcinea, transformed into a country wench,
skipping and mounting upon her she-ass; again that the words of the sage
Merlin were sounding in his ears, setting forth the conditions to be
observed and the exertions to be made for the disenchantment of Dulcinea.
He lost all patience when he considered the laziness and want of charity
of his squire Sancho; for to the best of his belief he had only given
himself five lashes, a number paltry and disproportioned to the vast
number required. At this thought he felt such vexation and anger that he
reasoned the matter thus: "If Alexander the Great cut the Gordian knot,
saying, 'To cut comes to the same thing as to untie,' and yet did not
fail to become lord paramount of all Asia, neither more nor less could
happen now in Dulcinea's disenchantment if I scourge Sancho against his
will; for, if it is the condition of the remedy that Sancho shall receive
three thousand and odd lashes, what does it matter to me whether he
inflicts them himself, or some one else inflicts them, when the essential
point is that he receives them, let them come from whatever quarter they
may?"
With this idea he went over to Sancho, having first taken Rocinante's
reins and arranged them so as to be able to flog him with them, and began
to untie the points (the common belief is he had but one in front) by
which his breeches were held up; but the instant he approached him Sancho
woke up in his full senses and cried out, "What is this? Who is touching
me and untrussing me?"
"It is I," said Don Quixote, "and I come to make good thy shortcomings
and relieve my own distresses; I come to whip thee, Sancho, and wipe off
some portion of the debt thou hast undertaken. Dulcinea is perishing,
thou art living on regardless, I am dying of hope deferred; therefore
untruss thyself with a good will, for mine it is, here, in this retired
spot, to give thee at least two thousand lashes."
"Not a bit of it," said Sancho; "let your worship keep quiet, or else by
the living God the deaf shall hear us; the lashes I pledged myself to
must be voluntary and not forced upon me, and just now I have no fancy to
whip myself; it is enough if I give you my word to flog and flap myself
when I have a mind."
"It will not do to leave it to thy courtesy, Sancho," said Don Quixote,
"for thou art hard of heart and, though a clown, tender of flesh;" and at
the same time he strove and struggled to untie him.
Seeing this Sancho got up, and grappling with his master he gripped him
with all his might in his arms, giving him a trip with the heel stretched
him on the ground on his back, and pressing his right knee on his chest
held his hands in his own so that he could neither move nor breathe.
"How now, traitor!" exclaimed Don Quixote. "Dost thou revolt against thy
master and natural lord? Dost thou rise against him who gives thee his
bread?"
"I neither put down king, nor set up king," said Sancho; "I only stand up
for myself who am my own lord; if your worship promises me to be quiet,
and not to offer to whip me now, I'll let you go free and unhindered; if
not--
Traitor and Dona Sancha's foe,
Thou diest on the spot."
Don Quixote gave his promise, and swore by the life of his thoughts not
to touch so much as a hair of his garments, and to leave him entirely
free and to his own discretion to whip himself whenever he pleased.
Sancho rose and removed some distance from the spot, but as he was about
to place himself leaning against another tree he felt something touch his
head, and putting up his hands encountered somebody's two feet with shoes
and stockings on them. He trembled with fear and made for another tree,
where the very same thing happened to him, and he fell a-shouting,
calling upon Don Quixote to come and protect him. Don Quixote did so, and
asked him what had happened to him, and what he was afraid of. Sancho
replied that all the trees were full of men's feet and legs. Don Quixote
felt them, and guessed at once what it was, and said to Sancho, "Thou
hast nothing to be afraid of, for these feet and legs that thou feelest
but canst not see belong no doubt to some outlaws and freebooters that
have been hanged on these trees; for the authorities in these parts are
wont to hang them up by twenties and thirties when they catch them;
whereby I conjecture that I must be near Barcelona;" and it was, in fact,
as he supposed; with the first light they looked up and saw that the
fruit hanging on those trees were freebooters' bodies.
And now day dawned; and if the dead freebooters had scared them, their
hearts were no less troubled by upwards of forty living ones, who all of
a sudden surrounded them, and in the Catalan tongue bade them stand and
wait until their captain came up. Don Quixote was on foot with his horse
unbridled and his lance leaning against a tree, and in short completely
defenceless; he thought it best therefore to fold his arms and bow his
head and reserve himself for a more favourable occasion and opportunity.
The robbers made haste to search Dapple, and did not leave him a single
thing of all he carried in the alforjas and in the valise; and lucky it
was for Sancho that the duke's crowns and those he brought from home were
in a girdle that he wore round him; but for all that these good folk
would have stripped him, and even looked to see what he had hidden
between the skin and flesh, but for the arrival at that moment of their
captain, who was about thirty-four years of age apparently, strongly
built, above the middle height, of stern aspect and swarthy complexion.
He was mounted upon a powerful horse, and had on a coat of mail, with
four of the pistols they call petronels in that country at his waist. He
saw that his squires (for so they call those who follow that trade) were
about to rifle Sancho Panza, but he ordered them to desist and was at
once obeyed, so the girdle escaped. He wondered to see the lance leaning
against the tree, the shield on the ground, and Don Quixote in armour and
dejected, with the saddest and most melancholy face that sadness itself
could produce; and going up to him he said, "Be not so cast down, good
man, for you have not fallen into the hands of any inhuman Busiris, but
into Roque Guinart's, which are more merciful than cruel."
"The cause of my dejection," returned Don Quixote, "is not that I have
fallen into thy hands, O valiant Roque, whose fame is bounded by no
limits on earth, but that my carelessness should have been so great that
thy soldiers should have caught me unbridled, when it is my duty,
according to the rule of knight-errantry which I profess, to be always on
the alert and at all times my own sentinel; for let me tell thee, great
Roque, had they found me on my horse, with my lance and shield, it would
not have been very easy for them to reduce me to submission, for I am Don
Quixote of La Mancha, he who hath filled the whole world with his
achievements."
Roque Guinart at once perceived that Don Quixote's weakness was more akin
to madness than to swagger; and though he had sometimes heard him spoken
of, he never regarded the things attributed to him as true, nor could he
persuade himself that such a humour could become dominant in the heart of
man; he was extremely glad, therefore, to meet him and test at close
quarters what he had heard of him at a distance; so he said to him,
"Despair not, valiant knight, nor regard as an untoward fate the position
in which thou findest thyself; it may be that by these slips thy crooked
fortune will make itself straight; for heaven by strange circuitous ways,
mysterious and incomprehensible to man, raises up the fallen and makes
rich the poor."
Don Quixote was about to thank him, when they heard behind them a noise
as of a troop of horses; there was, however, but one, riding on which at
a furious pace came a youth, apparently about twenty years of age, clad
in green damask edged with gold and breeches and a loose frock, with a
hat looped up in the Walloon fashion, tight-fitting polished boots, gilt
spurs, dagger and sword, and in his hand a musketoon, and a pair of
pistols at his waist.
Roque turned round at the noise and perceived this comely figure, which
drawing near thus addressed him, "I came in quest of thee, valiant Roque,
to find in thee if not a remedy at least relief in my misfortune; and not
to keep thee in suspense, for I see thou dost not recognise me, I will
tell thee who I am; I am Claudia Jeronima, the daughter of Simon Forte,
thy good friend, and special enemy of Clauquel Torrellas, who is thine
also as being of the faction opposed to thee. Thou knowest that this
Torrellas has a son who is called, or at least was not two hours since,
Don Vicente Torrellas. Well, to cut short the tale of my misfortune, I
will tell thee in a few words what this youth has brought upon me. He saw
me, he paid court to me, I listened to him, and, unknown to my father, I
loved him; for there is no woman, however secluded she may live or close
she may be kept, who will not have opportunities and to spare for
following her headlong impulses. In a word, he pledged himself to be
mine, and I promised to be his, without carrying matters any further.
Yesterday I learned that, forgetful of his pledge to me, he was about to
marry another, and that he was to go this morning to plight his troth,
intelligence which overwhelmed and exasperated me; my father not being at
home I was able to adopt this costume you see, and urging my horse to
speed I overtook Don Vicente about a league from this, and without
waiting to utter reproaches or hear excuses I fired this musket at him,
and these two pistols besides, and to the best of my belief I must have
lodged more than two bullets in his body, opening doors to let my honour
go free, enveloped in his blood. I left him there in the hands of his
servants, who did not dare and were not able to interfere in his defence,
and I come to seek from thee a safe-conduct into France, where I have
relatives with whom I can live; and also to implore thee to protect my
father, so that Don Vicente's numerous kinsmen may not venture to wreak
their lawless vengeance upon him."
Roque, filled with admiration at the gallant bearing, high spirit, comely
figure, and adventure of the fair Claudia, said to her, "Come, senora,
let us go and see if thy enemy is dead; and then we will consider what
will be best for thee." Don Quixote, who had been listening to what
Claudia said and Roque Guinart said in reply to her, exclaimed, "Nobody
need trouble himself with the defence of this lady, for I take it upon
myself. Give me my horse and arms, and wait for me here; I will go in
quest of this knight, and dead or alive I will make him keep his word
plighted to so great beauty."
"Nobody need have any doubt about that," said Sancho, "for my master has
a very happy knack of matchmaking; it's not many days since he forced
another man to marry, who in the same way backed out of his promise to
another maiden; and if it had not been for his persecutors the enchanters
changing the man's proper shape into a lacquey's the said maiden would
not be one this minute."
Roque, who was paying more attention to the fair Claudia's adventure than
to the words of master or man, did not hear them; and ordering his
squires to restore to Sancho everything they had stripped Dapple of, he
directed them to return to the place where they had been quartered during
the night, and then set off with Claudia at full speed in search of the
wounded or slain Don Vicente. They reached the spot where Claudia met
him, but found nothing there save freshly spilt blood; looking all round,
however, they descried some people on the slope of a hill above them, and
concluded, as indeed it proved to be, that it was Don Vicente, whom
either dead or alive his servants were removing to attend to his wounds
or to bury him. They made haste to overtake them, which, as the party
moved slowly, they were able to do with ease. They found Don Vicente in
the arms of his servants, whom he was entreating in a broken feeble voice
to leave him there to die, as the pain of his wounds would not suffer him
to go any farther. Claudia and Roque threw themselves off their horses
and advanced towards him; the servants were overawed by the appearance of
Roque, and Claudia was moved by the sight of Don Vicente, and going up to
him half tenderly half sternly, she seized his hand and said to him,
"Hadst thou given me this according to our compact thou hadst never come
to this pass."
The wounded gentleman opened his all but closed eyes, and recognising
Claudia said, "I see clearly, fair and mistaken lady, that it is thou
that hast slain me, a punishment not merited or deserved by my feelings
towards thee, for never did I mean to, nor could I, wrong thee in thought
or deed."
"It is not true, then," said Claudia, "that thou wert going this morning
to marry Leonora the daughter of the rich Balvastro?"
"Assuredly not," replied Don Vicente; "my cruel fortune must have carried
those tidings to thee to drive thee in thy jealousy to take my life; and
to assure thyself of this, press my hands and take me for thy husband if
thou wilt; I have no better satisfaction to offer thee for the wrong thou
fanciest thou hast received from me."
Claudia wrung his hands, and her own heart was so wrung that she lay
fainting on the bleeding breast of Don Vicente, whom a death spasm seized
the same instant. Roque was in perplexity and knew not what to do; the
servants ran to fetch water to sprinkle their faces, and brought some and
bathed them with it. Claudia recovered from her fainting fit, but not so
Don Vicente from the paroxysm that had overtaken him, for his life had
come to an end. On perceiving this, Claudia, when she had convinced
herself that her beloved husband was no more, rent the air with her sighs
and made the heavens ring with her lamentations; she tore her hair and
scattered it to the winds, she beat her face with her hands and showed
all the signs of grief and sorrow that could be conceived to come from an
afflicted heart. "Cruel, reckless woman!" she cried, "how easily wert
thou moved to carry out a thought so wicked! O furious force of jealousy,
to what desperate lengths dost thou lead those that give thee lodging in
their bosoms! O husband, whose unhappy fate in being mine hath borne thee
from the marriage bed to the grave!"
So vehement and so piteous were the lamentations of Claudia that they
drew tears from Roque's eyes, unused as they were to shed them on any
occasion. The servants wept, Claudia swooned away again and again, and
the whole place seemed a field of sorrow and an abode of misfortune. In
the end Roque Guinart directed Don Vicente's servants to carry his body
to his father's village, which was close by, for burial. Claudia told him
she meant to go to a monastery of which an aunt of hers was abbess, where
she intended to pass her life with a better and everlasting spouse. He
applauded her pious resolution, and offered to accompany her
whithersoever she wished, and to protect her father against the kinsmen
of Don Vicente and all the world, should they seek to injure him. Claudia
would not on any account allow him to accompany her; and thanking him for
his offers as well as she could, took leave of him in tears. The servants
of Don Vicente carried away his body, and Roque returned to his comrades,
and so ended the love of Claudia Jeronima; but what wonder, when it was
the insuperable and cruel might of jealousy that wove the web of her sad
story?
Roque Guinart found his squires at the place to which he had ordered
them, and Don Quixote on Rocinante in the midst of them delivering a
harangue to them in which he urged them to give up a mode of life so full
of peril, as well to the soul as to the body; but as most of them were
Gascons, rough lawless fellows, his speech did not make much impression
on them. Roque on coming up asked Sancho if his men had returned and
restored to him the treasures and jewels they had stripped off Dapple.
Sancho said they had, but that three kerchiefs that were worth three
cities were missing.
"What are you talking about, man?" said one of the bystanders; "I have
got them, and they are not worth three reals."
"That is true," said Don Quixote; "but my squire values them at the rate
he says, as having been given me by the person who gave them."
Roque Guinart ordered them to be restored at once; and making his men
fall in in line he directed all the clothing, jewellery, and money that
they had taken since the last distribution to be produced; and making a
hasty valuation, and reducing what could not be divided into money, he
made shares for the whole band so equitably and carefully, that in no
case did he exceed or fall short of strict distributive justice.
When this had been done, and all left satisfied, Roque observed to Don
Quixote, "If this scrupulous exactness were not observed with these
fellows there would be no living with them."
Upon this Sancho remarked, "From what I have seen here, justice is such a
good thing that there is no doing without it, even among the thieves
themselves."
One of the squires heard this, and raising the butt-end of his harquebuss
would no doubt have broken Sancho's head with it had not Roque Guinart
called out to him to hold his hand. Sancho was frightened out of his
wits, and vowed not to open his lips so long as he was in the company of
these people.
At this instant one or two of those squires who were posted as sentinels
on the roads, to watch who came along them and report what passed to
their chief, came up and said, "Senor, there is a great troop of people
not far off coming along the road to Barcelona."
To which Roque replied, "Hast thou made out whether they are of the sort
that are after us, or of the sort we are after?"
"The sort we are after," said the squire.
"Well then, away with you all," said Roque, "and bring them here to me at
once without letting one of them escape."
They obeyed, and Don Quixote, Sancho, and Roque, left by themselves,
waited to see what the squires brought, and while they were waiting Roque
said to Don Quixote, "It must seem a strange sort of life to Senor Don
Quixote, this of ours, strange adventures, strange incidents, and all
full of danger; and I do not wonder that it should seem so, for in truth
I must own there is no mode of life more restless or anxious than ours.
What led me into it was a certain thirst for vengeance, which is strong
enough to disturb the quietest hearts. I am by nature tender-hearted and
kindly, but, as I said, the desire to revenge myself for a wrong that was
done me so overturns all my better impulses that I keep on in this way of
life in spite of what conscience tells me; and as one depth calls to
another, and one sin to another sin, revenges have linked themselves
together, and I have taken upon myself not only my own but those of
others: it pleases God, however, that, though I see myself in this maze
of entanglements, I do not lose all hope of escaping from it and reaching
a safe port."
Don Quixote was amazed to hear Roque utter such excellent and just
sentiments, for he did not think that among those who followed such
trades as robbing, murdering, and waylaying, there could be anyone
capable of a virtuous thought, and he said in reply, "Senor Roque, the
beginning of health lies in knowing the disease and in the sick man's
willingness to take the medicines which the physician prescribes; you are
sick, you know what ails you, and heaven, or more properly speaking God,
who is our physician, will administer medicines that will cure you, and
cure gradually, and not of a sudden or by a miracle; besides, sinners of
discernment are nearer amendment than those who are fools; and as your
worship has shown good sense in your remarks, all you have to do is to
keep up a good heart and trust that the weakness of your conscience will
be strengthened. And if you have any desire to shorten the journey and
put yourself easily in the way of salvation, come with me, and I will
show you how to become a knight-errant, a calling wherein so many
hardships and mishaps are encountered that if they be taken as penances
they will lodge you in heaven in a trice."
Roque laughed at Don Quixote's exhortation, and changing the conversation
he related the tragic affair of Claudia Jeronima, at which Sancho was
extremely grieved; for he had not found the young woman's beauty,
boldness, and spirit at all amiss.
And now the squires despatched to make the prize came up, bringing with
them two gentlemen on horseback, two pilgrims on foot, and a coach full
of women with some six servants on foot and on horseback in attendance on
them, and a couple of muleteers whom the gentlemen had with them. The
squires made a ring round them, both victors and vanquished maintaining
profound silence, waiting for the great Roque Guinart to speak. He asked
the gentlemen who they were, whither they were going, and what money they
carried with them; "Senor," replied one of them, "we are two captains of
Spanish infantry; our companies are at Naples, and we are on our way to
embark in four galleys which they say are at Barcelona under orders for
Sicily; and we have about two or three hundred crowns, with which we are,
according to our notions, rich and contented, for a soldier's poverty
does not allow a more extensive hoard."
Roque asked the pilgrims the same questions he had put to the captains,
and was answered that they were going to take ship for Rome, and that
between them they might have about sixty reals. He asked also who was in
the coach, whither they were bound and what money they had, and one of
the men on horseback replied, "The persons in the coach are my lady Dona
Guiomar de Quinones, wife of the regent of the Vicaria at Naples, her
little daughter, a handmaid and a duenna; we six servants are in
attendance upon her, and the money amounts to six hundred crowns."
"So then," said Roque Guinart, "we have got here nine hundred crowns and
sixty reals; my soldiers must number some sixty; see how much there falls
to each, for I am a bad arithmetician." As soon as the robbers heard this
they raised a shout of "Long life to Roque Guinart, in spite of the
lladres that seek his ruin!"
The captains showed plainly the concern they felt, the regent's lady was
downcast, and the pilgrims did not at all enjoy seeing their property
confiscated. Roque kept them in suspense in this way for a while; but he
had no desire to prolong their distress, which might be seen a bowshot
off, and turning to the captains he said, "Sirs, will your worships be
pleased of your courtesy to lend me sixty crowns, and her ladyship the
regent's wife eighty, to satisfy this band that follows me, for 'it is by
his singing the abbot gets his dinner;' and then you may at once proceed
on your journey, free and unhindered, with a safe-conduct which I shall
give you, so that if you come across any other bands of mine that I have
scattered in these parts, they may do you no harm; for I have no
intention of doing injury to soldiers, or to any woman, especially one of
quality."
Profuse and hearty were the expressions of gratitude with which the
captains thanked Roque for his courtesy and generosity; for such they
regarded his leaving them their own money. Senora Dona Guiomar de
Quinones wanted to throw herself out of the coach to kiss the feet and
hands of the great Roque, but he would not suffer it on any account; so
far from that, he begged her pardon for the wrong he had done her under
pressure of the inexorable necessities of his unfortunate calling. The
regent's lady ordered one of her servants to give the eighty crowns that
had been assessed as her share at once, for the captains had already paid
down their sixty. The pilgrims were about to give up the whole of their
little hoard, but Roque bade them keep quiet, and turning to his men he
said, "Of these crowns two fall to each man and twenty remain over; let
ten be given to these pilgrims, and the other ten to this worthy squire
that he may be able to speak favourably of this adventure;" and then
having writing materials, with which he always went provided, brought to
him, he gave them in writing a safe-conduct to the leaders of his bands;
and bidding them farewell let them go free and filled with admiration at
his magnanimity, his generous disposition, and his unusual conduct, and
inclined to regard him as an Alexander the Great rather than a notorious
robber.
One of the squires observed in his mixture of Gascon and Catalan, "This
captain of ours would make a better friar than highwayman; if he wants to
be so generous another time, let it be with his own property and not
ours."
The unlucky wight did not speak so low but that Roque overheard him, and
drawing his sword almost split his head in two, saying, "That is the way
I punish impudent saucy fellows." They were all taken aback, and not one
of them dared to utter a word, such deference did they pay him. Roque
then withdrew to one side and wrote a letter to a friend of his at
Barcelona, telling him that the famous Don Quixote of La Mancha, the
knight-errant of whom there was so much talk, was with him, and was, he
assured him, the drollest and wisest man in the world; and that in four
days from that date, that is to say, on Saint John the Baptist's Day, he
was going to deposit him in full armour mounted on his horse Rocinante,
together with his squire Sancho on an ass, in the middle of the strand of
the city; and bidding him give notice of this to his friends the Niarros,
that they might divert themselves with him. He wished, he said, his
enemies the Cadells could be deprived of this pleasure; but that was
impossible, because the crazes and shrewd sayings of Don Quixote and the
humours of his squire Sancho Panza could not help giving general pleasure
to all the world. He despatched the letter by one of his squires, who,
exchanging the costume of a highwayman for that of a peasant, made his
way into Barcelona and gave it to the person to whom it was directed.
CHAPTER LXI.
OF WHAT HAPPENED DON QUIXOTE ON ENTERING BARCELONA, TOGETHER WITH OTHER
MATTERS THAT PARTAKE OF THE TRUE RATHER THAN OF THE INGENIOUS
Don Quixote passed three days and three nights with Roque, and had he
passed three hundred years he would have found enough to observe and
wonder at in his mode of life. At daybreak they were in one spot, at
dinner-time in another; sometimes they fled without knowing from whom, at
other times they lay in wait, not knowing for what. They slept standing,
breaking their slumbers to shift from place to place. There was nothing
but sending out spies and scouts, posting sentinels and blowing the
matches of harquebusses, though they carried but few, for almost all used
flintlocks. Roque passed his nights in some place or other apart from his
men, that they might not know where he was, for the many proclamations
the viceroy of Barcelona had issued against his life kept him in fear and
uneasiness, and he did not venture to trust anyone, afraid that even his
own men would kill him or deliver him up to the authorities; of a truth,
a weary miserable life! At length, by unfrequented roads, short cuts, and
secret paths, Roque, Don Quixote, and Sancho, together with six squires,
set out for Barcelona. They reached the strand on Saint John's Eve during
the night; and Roque, after embracing Don Quixote and Sancho (to whom he
presented the ten crowns he had promised but had not until then given),
left them with many expressions of good-will on both sides.
Roque went back, while Don Quixote remained on horseback, just as he was,
waiting for day, and it was not long before the countenance of the fair
Aurora began to show itself at the balconies of the east, gladdening the
grass and flowers, if not the ear, though to gladden that too there came
at the same moment a sound of clarions and drums, and a din of bells, and
a tramp, tramp, and cries of "Clear the way there!" of some runners, that
seemed to issue from the city.
The dawn made way for the sun that with a face broader than a buckler
began to rise slowly above the low line of the horizon; Don Quixote and
Sancho gazed all round them; they beheld the sea, a sight until then
unseen by them; it struck them as exceedingly spacious and broad, much
more so than the lakes of Ruidera which they had seen in La Mancha. They
saw the galleys along the beach, which, lowering their awnings, displayed
themselves decked with streamers and pennons that trembled in the breeze
and kissed and swept the water, while on board the bugles, trumpets, and
clarions were sounding and filling the air far and near with melodious
warlike notes. Then they began to move and execute a kind of skirmish
upon the calm water, while a vast number of horsemen on fine horses and
in showy liveries, issuing from the city, engaged on their side in a
somewhat similar movement. The soldiers on board the galleys kept up a
ceaseless fire, which they on the walls and forts of the city returned,
and the heavy cannon rent the air with the tremendous noise they made, to
which the gangway guns of the galleys replied. The bright sea, the
smiling earth, the clear air--though at times darkened by the smoke of
the guns--all seemed to fill the whole multitude with unexpected delight.
Sancho could not make out how it was that those great masses that moved
over the sea had so many feet.
And now the horsemen in livery came galloping up with shouts and
outlandish cries and cheers to where Don Quixote stood amazed and
wondering; and one of them, he to whom Roque had sent word, addressing
him exclaimed, "Welcome to our city, mirror, beacon, star and cynosure of
all knight-errantry in its widest extent! Welcome, I say, valiant Don
Quixote of La Mancha; not the false, the fictitious, the apocryphal, that
these latter days have offered us in lying histories, but the true, the
legitimate, the real one that Cide Hamete Benengeli, flower of
historians, has described to us!"
Don Quixote made no answer, nor did the horsemen wait for one, but
wheeling again with all their followers, they began curvetting round Don
Quixote, who, turning to Sancho, said, "These gentlemen have plainly
recognised us; I will wager they have read our history, and even that
newly printed one by the Aragonese."
The cavalier who had addressed Don Quixote again approached him and said,
"Come with us, Senor Don Quixote, for we are all of us your servants and
great friends of Roque Guinart's;" to which Don Quixote returned, "If
courtesy breeds courtesy, yours, sir knight, is daughter or very nearly
akin to the great Roque's; carry me where you please; I will have no will
but yours, especially if you deign to employ it in your service."
The cavalier replied with words no less polite, and then, all closing in
around him, they set out with him for the city, to the music of the
clarions and the drums. As they were entering it, the wicked one, who is
the author of all mischief, and the boys who are wickeder than the wicked
one, contrived that a couple of these audacious irrepressible urchins
should force their way through the crowd, and lifting up, one of them
Dapple's tail and the other Rocinante's, insert a bunch of furze under
each. The poor beasts felt the strange spurs and added to their anguish
by pressing their tails tight, so much so that, cutting a multitude of
capers, they flung their masters to the ground. Don Quixote, covered with
shame and out of countenance, ran to pluck the plume from his poor jade's
tail, while Sancho did the same for Dapple. His conductors tried to
punish the audacity of the boys, but there was no possibility of doing
so, for they hid themselves among the hundreds of others that were
following them. Don Quixote and Sancho mounted once more, and with the
same music and acclamations reached their conductor's house, which was
large and stately, that of a rich gentleman, in short; and there for the
present we will leave them, for such is Cide Hamete's pleasure.
CHAPTER LXII.
WHICH DEALS WITH THE ADVENTURE OF THE ENCHANTED HEAD, TOGETHER WITH OTHER
TRIVIAL MATTERS WHICH CANNOT BE LEFT UNTOLD
Don Quixote's host was one Don Antonio Moreno by name, a gentleman of
wealth and intelligence, and very fond of diverting himself in any fair
and good-natured way; and having Don Quixote in his house he set about
devising modes of making him exhibit his mad points in some harmless
fashion; for jests that give pain are no jests, and no sport is worth
anything if it hurts another. The first thing he did was to make Don
Quixote take off his armour, and lead him, in that tight chamois suit we
have already described and depicted more than once, out on a balcony
overhanging one of the chief streets of the city, in full view of the
crowd and of the boys, who gazed at him as they would at a monkey. The
cavaliers in livery careered before him again as though it were for him
alone, and not to enliven the festival of the day, that they wore it, and
Sancho was in high delight, for it seemed to him that, how he knew not,
he had fallen upon another Camacho's wedding, another house like Don
Diego de Miranda's, another castle like the duke's. Some of Don Antonio's
friends dined with him that day, and all showed honour to Don Quixote and
treated him as a knight-errant, and he becoming puffed up and exalted in
consequence could not contain himself for satisfaction. Such were the
drolleries of Sancho that all the servants of the house, and all who
heard him, were kept hanging upon his lips. While at table Don Antonio
said to him, "We hear, worthy Sancho, that you are so fond of manjar
blanco and forced-meat balls, that if you have any left, you keep them in
your bosom for the next day."
"No, senor, that's not true," said Sancho, "for I am more cleanly than
greedy, and my master Don Quixote here knows well that we two are used to
live for a week on a handful of acorns or nuts. To be sure, if it so
happens that they offer me a heifer, I run with a halter; I mean, I eat
what I'm given, and make use of opportunities as I find them; but whoever
says that I'm an out-of-the-way eater or not cleanly, let me tell him
that he is wrong; and I'd put it in a different way if I did not respect
the honourable beards that are at the table."
"Indeed," said Don Quixote, "Sancho's moderation and cleanliness in
eating might be inscribed and graved on plates of brass, to be kept in
eternal remembrance in ages to come. It is true that when he is hungry
there is a certain appearance of voracity about him, for he eats at a
great pace and chews with both jaws; but cleanliness he is always mindful
of; and when he was governor he learned how to eat daintily, so much so
that he eats grapes, and even pomegranate pips, with a fork."
"What!" said Don Antonio, "has Sancho been a governor?"
"Ay," said Sancho, "and of an island called Barataria. I governed it to
perfection for ten days; and lost my rest all the time; and learned to
look down upon all the governments in the world; I got out of it by
taking to flight, and fell into a pit where I gave myself up for dead,
and out of which I escaped alive by a miracle."
Don Quixote then gave them a minute account of the whole affair of
Sancho's government, with which he greatly amused his hearers.
On the cloth being removed Don Antonio, taking Don Quixote by the hand,
passed with him into a distant room in which there was nothing in the way
of furniture except a table, apparently of jasper, resting on a pedestal
of the same, upon which was set up, after the fashion of the busts of the
Roman emperors, a head which seemed to be of bronze. Don Antonio
traversed the whole apartment with Don Quixote and walked round the table
several times, and then said, "Now, Senor Don Quixote, that I am
satisfied that no one is listening to us, and that the door is shut, I
will tell you of one of the rarest adventures, or more properly speaking
strange things, that can be imagined, on condition that you will keep
what I say to you in the remotest recesses of secrecy."
"I swear it," said Don Quixote, "and for greater security I will put a
flag-stone over it; for I would have you know, Senor Don Antonio" (he had
by this time learned his name), "that you are addressing one who, though
he has ears to hear, has no tongue to speak; so that you may safely
transfer whatever you have in your bosom into mine, and rely upon it that
you have consigned it to the depths of silence."
"In reliance upon that promise," said Don Antonio, "I will astonish you
with what you shall see and hear, and relieve myself of some of the
vexation it gives me to have no one to whom I can confide my secrets, for
they are not of a sort to be entrusted to everybody."
Don Quixote was puzzled, wondering what could be the object of such
precautions; whereupon Don Antonio taking his hand passed it over the
bronze head and the whole table and the pedestal of jasper on which it
stood, and then said, "This head, Senor Don Quixote, has been made and
fabricated by one of the greatest magicians and wizards the world ever
saw, a Pole, I believe, by birth, and a pupil of the famous Escotillo of
whom such marvellous stories are told. He was here in my house, and for a
consideration of a thousand crowns that I gave him he constructed this
head, which has the property and virtue of answering whatever questions
are put to its ear. He observed the points of the compass, he traced
figures, he studied the stars, he watched favourable moments, and at
length brought it to the perfection we shall see to-morrow, for on
Fridays it is mute, and this being Friday we must wait till the next day.
In the interval your worship may consider what you would like to ask it;
and I know by experience that in all its answers it tells the truth."
Don Quixote was amazed at the virtue and property of the head, and was
inclined to disbelieve Don Antonio; but seeing what a short time he had
to wait to test the matter, he did not choose to say anything except that
he thanked him for having revealed to him so mighty a secret. They then
quitted the room, Don Antonio locked the door, and they repaired to the
chamber where the rest of the gentlemen were assembled. In the meantime
Sancho had recounted to them several of the adventures and accidents that
had happened his master.
That afternoon they took Don Quixote out for a stroll, not in his armour
but in street costume, with a surcoat of tawny cloth upon him, that at
that season would have made ice itself sweat. Orders were left with the
servants to entertain Sancho so as not to let him leave the house. Don
Quixote was mounted, not on Rocinante, but upon a tall mule of easy pace
and handsomely caparisoned. They put the surcoat on him, and on the back,
without his perceiving it, they stitched a parchment on which they wrote
in large letters, "This is Don Quixote of La Mancha." As they set out
upon their excursion the placard attracted the eyes of all who chanced to
see him, and as they read out, "This is Don Quixote of La Mancha," Don
Quixote was amazed to see how many people gazed at him, called him by his
name, and recognised him, and turning to Don Antonio, who rode at his
side, he observed to him, "Great are the privileges knight-errantry
involves, for it makes him who professes it known and famous in every
region of the earth; see, Don Antonio, even the very boys of this city
know me without ever having seen me."
"True, Senor Don Quixote," returned Don Antonio; "for as fire cannot be
hidden or kept secret, virtue cannot escape being recognised; and that
which is attained by the profession of arms shines distinguished above
all others."
It came to pass, however, that as Don Quixote was proceeding amid the
acclamations that have been described, a Castilian, reading the
inscription on his back, cried out in a loud voice, "The devil take thee
for a Don Quixote of La Mancha! What! art thou here, and not dead of the
countless drubbings that have fallen on thy ribs? Thou art mad; and if
thou wert so by thyself, and kept thyself within thy madness, it would
not be so bad; but thou hast the gift of making fools and blockheads of
all who have anything to do with thee or say to thee. Why, look at these
gentlemen bearing thee company! Get thee home, blockhead, and see after
thy affairs, and thy wife and children, and give over these fooleries
that are sapping thy brains and skimming away thy wits."
"Go your own way, brother," said Don Antonio, "and don't offer advice to
those who don't ask you for it. Senor Don Quixote is in his full senses,
and we who bear him company are not fools; virtue is to be honoured
wherever it may be found; go, and bad luck to you, and don't meddle where
you are not wanted."
"By God, your worship is right," replied the Castilian; "for to advise
this good man is to kick against the pricks; still for all that it fills
me with pity that the sound wit they say the blockhead has in everything
should dribble away by the channel of his knight-errantry; but may the
bad luck your worship talks of follow me and all my descendants, if, from
this day forth, though I should live longer than Methuselah, I ever give
advice to anybody even if he asks me for it."
The advice-giver took himself off, and they continued their stroll; but
so great was the press of the boys and people to read the placard, that
Don Antonio was forced to remove it as if he were taking off something
else.
Night came and they went home, and there was a ladies' dancing party, for
Don Antonio's wife, a lady of rank and gaiety, beauty and wit, had
invited some friends of hers to come and do honour to her guest and amuse
themselves with his strange delusions. Several of them came, they supped
sumptuously, the dance began at about ten o'clock. Among the ladies were
two of a mischievous and frolicsome turn, and, though perfectly modest,
somewhat free in playing tricks for harmless diversion sake. These two
were so indefatigable in taking Don Quixote out to dance that they tired
him down, not only in body but in spirit. It was a sight to see the
figure Don Quixote made, long, lank, lean, and yellow, his garments
clinging tight to him, ungainly, and above all anything but agile.
The gay ladies made secret love to him, and he on his part secretly
repelled them, but finding himself hard pressed by their blandishments he
lifted up his voice and exclaimed, "Fugite, partes adversae! Leave me in
peace, unwelcome overtures; avaunt, with your desires, ladies, for she
who is queen of mine, the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso, suffers none but
hers to lead me captive and subdue me;" and so saying he sat down on the
floor in the middle of the room, tired out and broken down by all this
exertion in the dance.
Don Antonio directed him to be taken up bodily and carried to bed, and
the first that laid hold of him was Sancho, saying as he did so, "In an
evil hour you took to dancing, master mine; do you fancy all mighty men
of valour are dancers, and all knights-errant given to capering? If you
do, I can tell you you are mistaken; there's many a man would rather
undertake to kill a giant than cut a caper. If it had been the shoe-fling
you were at I could take your place, for I can do the shoe-fling like a
gerfalcon; but I'm no good at dancing."
With these and other observations Sancho set the whole ball-room
laughing, and then put his master to bed, covering him up well so that he
might sweat out any chill caught after his dancing.
The next day Don Antonio thought he might as well make trial of the
enchanted head, and with Don Quixote, Sancho, and two others, friends of
his, besides the two ladies that had tired out Don Quixote at the ball,
who had remained for the night with Don Antonio's wife, he locked himself
up in the chamber where the head was. He explained to them the property
it possessed and entrusted the secret to them, telling them that now for
the first time he was going to try the virtue of the enchanted head; but
except Don Antonio's two friends no one else was privy to the mystery of
the enchantment, and if Don Antonio had not first revealed it to them
they would have been inevitably reduced to the same state of amazement as
the rest, so artfully and skilfully was it contrived.
The first to approach the ear of the head was Don Antonio himself, and in
a low voice but not so low as not to be audible to all, he said to it,
"Head, tell me by the virtue that lies in thee what am I at this moment
thinking of?"
The head, without any movement of the lips, answered in a clear and
distinct voice, so as to be heard by all, "I cannot judge of thoughts."
All were thunderstruck at this, and all the more so as they saw that
there was nobody anywhere near the table or in the whole room that could
have answered. "How many of us are here?" asked Don Antonio once more;
and it was answered him in the same way softly, "Thou and thy wife, with
two friends of thine and two of hers, and a famous knight called Don
Quixote of La Mancha, and a squire of his, Sancho Panza by name."
Now there was fresh astonishment; now everyone's hair was standing on end
with awe; and Don Antonio retiring from the head exclaimed, "This
suffices to show me that I have not been deceived by him who sold thee to
me, O sage head, talking head, answering head, wonderful head! Let some
one else go and put what question he likes to it."
And as women are commonly impulsive and inquisitive, the first to come
forward was one of the two friends of Don Antonio's wife, and her
question was, "Tell me, Head, what shall I do to be very beautiful?" and
the answer she got was, "Be very modest."
"I question thee no further," said the fair querist.
Her companion then came up and said, "I should like to know, Head,
whether my husband loves me or not;" the answer given to her was, "Think
how he uses thee, and thou mayest guess;" and the married lady went off
saying, "That answer did not need a question; for of course the treatment
one receives shows the disposition of him from whom it is received."
Then one of Don Antonio's two friends advanced and asked it, "Who am I?"
"Thou knowest," was the answer. "That is not what I ask thee," said the
gentleman, "but to tell me if thou knowest me." "Yes, I know thee, thou
art Don Pedro Noriz," was the reply.
"I do not seek to know more," said the gentleman, "for this is enough to
convince me, O Head, that thou knowest everything;" and as he retired the
other friend came forward and asked it, "Tell me, Head, what are the
wishes of my eldest son?"
"I have said already," was the answer, "that I cannot judge of wishes;
however, I can tell thee the wish of thy son is to bury thee."
"That's 'what I see with my eyes I point out with my finger,'" said the
gentleman, "so I ask no more."
Don Antonio's wife came up and said, "I know not what to ask thee, Head;
I would only seek to know of thee if I shall have many years of enjoyment
of my good husband;" and the answer she received was, "Thou shalt, for
his vigour and his temperate habits promise many years of life, which by
their intemperance others so often cut short."
Then Don Quixote came forward and said, "Tell me, thou that answerest,
was that which I describe as having happened to me in the cave of
Montesinos the truth or a dream? Will Sancho's whipping be accomplished
without fail? Will the disenchantment of Dulcinea be brought about?"
"As to the question of the cave," was the reply, "there is much to be
said; there is something of both in it. Sancho's whipping will proceed
leisurely. The disenchantment of Dulcinea will attain its due
consummation."
"I seek to know no more," said Don Quixote; "let me but see Dulcinea
disenchanted, and I will consider that all the good fortune I could wish
for has come upon me all at once."
The last questioner was Sancho, and his questions were, "Head, shall I by
any chance have another government? Shall I ever escape from the hard
life of a squire? Shall I get back to see my wife and children?" To which
the answer came, "Thou shalt govern in thy house; and if thou returnest
to it thou shalt see thy wife and children; and on ceasing to serve thou
shalt cease to be a squire."
"Good, by God!" said Sancho Panza; "I could have told myself that; the
prophet Perogrullo could have said no more."
"What answer wouldst thou have, beast?" said Don Quixote; "is it not
enough that the replies this head has given suit the questions put to
it?"
"Yes, it is enough," said Sancho; "but I should have liked it to have
made itself plainer and told me more."
The questions and answers came to an end here, but not the wonder with
which all were filled, except Don Antonio's two friends who were in the
secret. This Cide Hamete Benengeli thought fit to reveal at once, not to
keep the world in suspense, fancying that the head had some strange
magical mystery in it. He says, therefore, that on the model of another
head, the work of an image maker, which he had seen at Madrid, Don
Antonio made this one at home for his own amusement and to astonish
ignorant people; and its mechanism was as follows. The table was of wood
painted and varnished to imitate jasper, and the pedestal on which it
stood was of the same material, with four eagles' claws projecting from
it to support the weight more steadily. The head, which resembled a bust
or figure of a Roman emperor, and was coloured like bronze, was hollow
throughout, as was the table, into which it was fitted so exactly that no
trace of the joining was visible. The pedestal of the table was also
hollow and communicated with the throat and neck of the head, and the
whole was in communication with another room underneath the chamber in
which the head stood. Through the entire cavity in the pedestal, table,
throat and neck of the bust or figure, there passed a tube of tin
carefully adjusted and concealed from sight. In the room below
corresponding to the one above was placed the person who was to answer,
with his mouth to the tube, and the voice, as in an ear-trumpet, passed
from above downwards, and from below upwards, the words coming clearly
and distinctly; it was impossible, thus, to detect the trick. A nephew of
Don Antonio's, a smart sharp-witted student, was the answerer, and as he
had been told beforehand by his uncle who the persons were that would
come with him that day into the chamber where the head was, it was an
easy matter for him to answer the first question at once and correctly;
the others he answered by guess-work, and, being clever, cleverly. Cide
Hamete adds that this marvellous contrivance stood for some ten or twelve
days; but that, as it became noised abroad through the city that he had
in his house an enchanted head that answered all who asked questions of
it, Don Antonio, fearing it might come to the ears of the watchful
sentinels of our faith, explained the matter to the inquisitors, who
commanded him to break it up and have done with it, lest the ignorant
vulgar should be scandalised. By Don Quixote, however, and by Sancho the
head was still held to be an enchanted one, and capable of answering
questions, though more to Don Quixote's satisfaction than Sancho's.
The gentlemen of the city, to gratify Don Antonio and also to do the
honours to Don Quixote, and give him an opportunity of displaying his
folly, made arrangements for a tilting at the ring in six days from that
time, which, however, for reason that will be mentioned hereafter, did
not take place.
Don Quixote took a fancy to stroll about the city quietly and on foot,
for he feared that if he went on horseback the boys would follow him; so
he and Sancho and two servants that Don Antonio gave him set out for a
walk. Thus it came to pass that going along one of the streets Don
Quixote lifted up his eyes and saw written in very large letters over a
door, "Books printed here," at which he was vastly pleased, for until
then he had never seen a printing office, and he was curious to know what
it was like. He entered with all his following, and saw them drawing
sheets in one place, correcting in another, setting up type here,
revising there; in short all the work that is to be seen in great
printing offices. He went up to one case and asked what they were about
there; the workmen told him, he watched them with wonder, and passed on.
He approached one man, among others, and asked him what he was doing. The
workman replied, "Senor, this gentleman here" (pointing to a man of
prepossessing appearance and a certain gravity of look) "has translated
an Italian book into our Spanish tongue, and I am setting it up in type
for the press."
"What is the title of the book?" asked Don Quixote; to which the author
replied, "Senor, in Italian the book is called Le Bagatelle."
"And what does Le Bagatelle import in our Spanish?" asked Don Quixote.
"Le Bagatelle," said the author, "is as though we should say in Spanish
Los Juguetes; but though the book is humble in name it has good solid
matter in it."
"I," said Don Quixote, "have some little smattering of Italian, and I
plume myself on singing some of Ariosto's stanzas; but tell me, senor--I
do not say this to test your ability, but merely out of curiosity--have
you ever met with the word pignatta in your book?"
"Yes, often," said the author.
"And how do you render that in Spanish?"
"How should I render it," returned the author, "but by olla?"
"Body o' me," exclaimed Don Quixote, "what a proficient you are in the
Italian language! I would lay a good wager that where they say in Italian
piace you say in Spanish place, and where they say piu you say mas, and
you translate su by arriba and giu by abajo."
"I translate them so of course," said the author, "for those are their
proper equivalents."
"I would venture to swear," said Don Quixote, "that your worship is not
known in the world, which always begrudges their reward to rare wits and
praiseworthy labours. What talents lie wasted there! What genius thrust
away into corners! What worth left neglected! Still it seems to me that
translation from one language into another, if it be not from the queens
of languages, the Greek and the Latin, is like looking at Flemish
tapestries on the wrong side; for though the figures are visible, they
are full of threads that make them indistinct, and they do not show with
the smoothness and brightness of the right side; and translation from
easy languages argues neither ingenuity nor command of words, any more
than transcribing or copying out one document from another. But I do not
mean by this to draw the inference that no credit is to be allowed for
the work of translating, for a man may employ himself in ways worse and
less profitable to himself. This estimate does not include two famous
translators, Doctor Cristobal de Figueroa, in his Pastor Fido, and Don
Juan de Jauregui, in his Aminta, wherein by their felicity they leave it
in doubt which is the translation and which the original. But tell me,
are you printing this book at your own risk, or have you sold the
copyright to some bookseller?"
"I print at my own risk," said the author, "and I expect to make a
thousand ducats at least by this first edition, which is to be of two
thousand copies that will go off in a twinkling at six reals apiece."
"A fine calculation you are making!" said Don Quixote; "it is plain you
don't know the ins and outs of the printers, and how they play into one
another's hands. I promise you when you find yourself saddled with two
thousand copies you will feel so sore that it will astonish you,
particularly if the book is a little out of the common and not in any way
highly spiced."
"What!" said the author, "would your worship, then, have me give it to a
bookseller who will give three maravedis for the copyright and think he
is doing me a favour? I do not print my books to win fame in the world,
for I am known in it already by my works; I want to make money, without
which reputation is not worth a rap."
"God send your worship good luck," said Don Quixote; and he moved on to
another case, where he saw them correcting a sheet of a book with the
title of "Light of the Soul;" noticing it he observed, "Books like this,
though there are many of the kind, are the ones that deserve to be
printed, for many are the sinners in these days, and lights unnumbered
are needed for all that are in darkness."
He passed on, and saw they were also correcting another book, and when he
asked its title they told him it was called, "The Second Part of the
Ingenious Gentleman Don Quixote of La Mancha," by one of Tordesillas.
"I have heard of this book already," said Don Quixote, "and verily and on
my conscience I thought it had been by this time burned to ashes as a
meddlesome intruder; but its Martinmas will come to it as it does to
every pig; for fictions have the more merit and charm about them the more
nearly they approach the truth or what looks like it; and true stories,
the truer they are the better they are;" and so saying he walked out of
the printing office with a certain amount of displeasure in his looks.
That same day Don Antonio arranged to take him to see the galleys that
lay at the beach, whereat Sancho was in high delight, as he had never
seen any all his life. Don Antonio sent word to the commandant of the
galleys that he intended to bring his guest, the famous Don Quixote of La
Mancha, of whom the commandant and all the citizens had already heard,
that afternoon to see them; and what happened on board of them will be
told in the next chapter.
CHAPTER LXIII.
OF THE MISHAP THAT BEFELL SANCHO PANZA THROUGH THE VISIT TO THE GALLEYS,
AND THE STRANGE ADVENTURE OF THE FAIR MORISCO
Profound were Don Quixote's reflections on the reply of the enchanted
head, not one of them, however, hitting on the secret of the trick, but
all concentrated on the promise, which he regarded as a certainty, of
Dulcinea's disenchantment. This he turned over in his mind again and
again with great satisfaction, fully persuaded that he would shortly see
its fulfillment; and as for Sancho, though, as has been said, he hated
being a governor, still he had a longing to be giving orders and finding
himself obeyed once more; this is the misfortune that being in authority,
even in jest, brings with it.
To resume; that afternoon their host Don Antonio Moreno and his two
friends, with Don Quixote and Sancho, went to the galleys. The commandant
had been already made aware of his good fortune in seeing two such famous
persons as Don Quixote and Sancho, and the instant they came to the shore
all the galleys struck their awnings and the clarions rang out. A skiff
covered with rich carpets and cushions of crimson velvet was immediately
lowered into the water, and as Don Quixote stepped on board of it, the
leading galley fired her gangway gun, and the other galleys did the same;
and as he mounted the starboard ladder the whole crew saluted him (as is
the custom when a personage of distinction comes on board a galley) by
exclaiming "Hu, hu, hu," three times. The general, for so we shall call
him, a Valencian gentleman of rank, gave him his hand and embraced him,
saying, "I shall mark this day with a white stone as one of the happiest
I can expect to enjoy in my lifetime, since I have seen Senor Don Quixote
of La Mancha, pattern and image wherein we see contained and condensed
all that is worthy in knight-errantry."
Don Quixote delighted beyond measure with such a lordly reception,
replied to him in words no less courteous. All then proceeded to the
poop, which was very handsomely decorated, and seated themselves on the
bulwark benches; the boatswain passed along the gangway and piped all
hands to strip, which they did in an instant. Sancho, seeing such a
number of men stripped to the skin, was taken aback, and still more when
he saw them spread the awning so briskly that it seemed to him as if all
the devils were at work at it; but all this was cakes and fancy bread to
what I am going to tell now. Sancho was seated on the captain's stage,
close to the aftermost rower on the right-hand side. He, previously
instructed in what he was to do, laid hold of Sancho, hoisting him up in
his arms, and the whole crew, who were standing ready, beginning on the
right, proceeded to pass him on, whirling him along from hand to hand and
from bench to bench with such rapidity that it took the sight out of poor
Sancho's eyes, and he made quite sure that the devils themselves were
flying away with him; nor did they leave off with him until they had sent
him back along the left side and deposited him on the poop; and the poor
fellow was left bruised and breathless and all in a sweat, and unable to
comprehend what it was that had happened to him.
Don Quixote when he saw Sancho's flight without wings asked the general
if this was a usual ceremony with those who came on board the galleys for
the first time; for, if so, as he had no intention of adopting them as a
profession, he had no mind to perform such feats of agility, and if
anyone offered to lay hold of him to whirl him about, he vowed to God he
would kick his soul out; and as he said this he stood up and clapped his
hand upon his sword. At this instant they struck the awning and lowered
the yard with a prodigious rattle. Sancho thought heaven was coming off
its hinges and going to fall on his head, and full of terror he ducked it
and buried it between his knees; nor were Don Quixote's knees altogether
under control, for he too shook a little, squeezed his shoulders together
and lost colour. The crew then hoisted the yard with the same rapidity
and clatter as when they lowered it, all the while keeping silence as
though they had neither voice nor breath. The boatswain gave the signal
to weigh anchor, and leaping upon the middle of the gangway began to lay
on to the shoulders of the crew with his courbash or whip, and to haul
out gradually to sea.
When Sancho saw so many red feet (for such he took the oars to be) moving
all together, he said to himself, "It's these that are the real chanted
things, and not the ones my master talks of. What can those wretches have
done to be so whipped; and how does that one man who goes along there
whistling dare to whip so many? I declare this is hell, or at least
purgatory!"
Don Quixote, observing how attentively Sancho regarded what was going on,
said to him, "Ah, Sancho my friend, how quickly and cheaply might you
finish off the disenchantment of Dulcinea, if you would strip to the
waist and take your place among those gentlemen! Amid the pain and
sufferings of so many you would not feel your own much; and moreover
perhaps the sage Merlin would allow each of these lashes, being laid on
with a good hand, to count for ten of those which you must give yourself
at last."
The general was about to ask what these lashes were, and what was
Dulcinea's disenchantment, when a sailor exclaimed, "Monjui signals that
there is an oared vessel off the coast to the west."
On hearing this the general sprang upon the gangway crying, "Now then, my
sons, don't let her give us the slip! It must be some Algerine corsair
brigantine that the watchtower signals to us." The three others
immediately came alongside the chief galley to receive their orders. The
general ordered two to put out to sea while he with the other kept in
shore, so that in this way the vessel could not escape them. The crews
plied the oars driving the galleys so furiously that they seemed to fly.
The two that had put out to sea, after a couple of miles sighted a vessel
which, so far as they could make out, they judged to be one of fourteen
or fifteen banks, and so she proved. As soon as the vessel discovered the
galleys she went about with the object and in the hope of making her
escape by her speed; but the attempt failed, for the chief galley was one
of the fastest vessels afloat, and overhauled her so rapidly that they on
board the brigantine saw clearly there was no possibility of escaping,
and the rais therefore would have had them drop their oars and give
themselves up so as not to provoke the captain in command of our galleys
to anger. But chance, directing things otherwise, so ordered it that just
as the chief galley came close enough for those on board the vessel to
hear the shouts from her calling on them to surrender, two Toraquis, that
is to say two Turks, both drunken, that with a dozen more were on board
the brigantine, discharged their muskets, killing two of the soldiers
that lined the sides of our vessel. Seeing this the general swore he
would not leave one of those he found on board the vessel alive, but as
he bore down furiously upon her she slipped away from him underneath the
oars. The galley shot a good way ahead; those on board the vessel saw
their case was desperate, and while the galley was coming about they made
sail, and by sailing and rowing once more tried to sheer off; but their
activity did not do them as much good as their rashness did them harm,
for the galley coming up with them in a little more than half a mile
threw her oars over them and took the whole of them alive. The other two
galleys now joined company and all four returned with the prize to the
beach, where a vast multitude stood waiting for them, eager to see what
they brought back. The general anchored close in, and perceived that the
viceroy of the city was on the shore. He ordered the skiff to push off to
fetch him, and the yard to be lowered for the purpose of hanging
forthwith the rais and the rest of the men taken on board the vessel,
about six-and-thirty in number, all smart fellows and most of them
Turkish musketeers. He asked which was the rais of the brigantine, and
was answered in Spanish by one of the prisoners (who afterwards proved to
be a Spanish renegade), "This young man, senor that you see here is our
rais," and he pointed to one of the handsomest and most gallant-looking
youths that could be imagined. He did not seem to be twenty years of age.
"Tell me, dog," said the general, "what led thee to kill my soldiers,
when thou sawest it was impossible for thee to escape? Is that the way to
behave to chief galleys? Knowest thou not that rashness is not valour?
Faint prospects of success should make men bold, but not rash."
The rais was about to reply, but the general could not at that moment
listen to him, as he had to hasten to receive the viceroy, who was now
coming on board the galley, and with him certain of his attendants and
some of the people.
"You have had a good chase, senor general," said the viceroy.
"Your excellency shall soon see how good, by the game strung up to this
yard," replied the general.
"How so?" returned the viceroy.
"Because," said the general, "against all law, reason, and usages of war
they have killed on my hands two of the best soldiers on board these
galleys, and I have sworn to hang every man that I have taken, but above
all this youth who is the rais of the brigantine," and he pointed to him
as he stood with his hands already bound and the rope round his neck,
ready for death.
The viceroy looked at him, and seeing him so well-favoured, so graceful,
and so submissive, he felt a desire to spare his life, the comeliness of
the youth furnishing him at once with a letter of recommendation. He
therefore questioned him, saying, "Tell me, rais, art thou Turk, Moor, or
renegade?"
To which the youth replied, also in Spanish, "I am neither Turk, nor
Moor, nor renegade."
"What art thou, then?" said the viceroy.
"A Christian woman," replied the youth.
"A woman and a Christian, in such a dress and in such circumstances! It
is more marvellous than credible," said the viceroy.
"Suspend the execution of the sentence," said the youth; "your vengeance
will not lose much by waiting while I tell you the story of my life."
What heart could be so hard as not to be softened by these words, at any
rate so far as to listen to what the unhappy youth had to say? The
general bade him say what he pleased, but not to expect pardon for his
flagrant offence. With this permission the youth began in these words.
"Born of Morisco parents, I am of that nation, more unhappy than wise,
upon which of late a sea of woes has poured down. In the course of our
misfortune I was carried to Barbary by two uncles of mine, for it was in
vain that I declared I was a Christian, as in fact I am, and not a mere
pretended one, or outwardly, but a true Catholic Christian. It availed me
nothing with those charged with our sad expatriation to protest this, nor
would my uncles believe it; on the contrary, they treated it as an
untruth and a subterfuge set up to enable me to remain behind in the land
of my birth; and so, more by force than of my own will, they took me with
them. I had a Christian mother, and a father who was a man of sound sense
and a Christian too; I imbibed the Catholic faith with my mother's milk,
I was well brought up, and neither in word nor in deed did I, I think,
show any sign of being a Morisco. To accompany these virtues, for such I
hold them, my beauty, if I possess any, grew with my growth; and great as
was the seclusion in which I lived it was not so great but that a young
gentleman, Don Gaspar Gregorio by name, eldest son of a gentleman who is
lord of a village near ours, contrived to find opportunities of seeing
me. How he saw me, how we met, how his heart was lost to me, and mine not
kept from him, would take too long to tell, especially at a moment when I
am in dread of the cruel cord that threatens me interposing between
tongue and throat; I will only say, therefore, that Don Gregorio chose to
accompany me in our banishment. He joined company with the Moriscoes who
were going forth from other villages, for he knew their language very
well, and on the voyage he struck up a friendship with my two uncles who
were carrying me with them; for my father, like a wise and far-sighted
man, as soon as he heard the first edict for our expulsion, quitted the
village and departed in quest of some refuge for us abroad. He left
hidden and buried, at a spot of which I alone have knowledge, a large
quantity of pearls and precious stones of great value, together with a
sum of money in gold cruzadoes and doubloons. He charged me on no account
to touch the treasure, if by any chance they expelled us before his
return. I obeyed him, and with my uncles, as I have said, and others of
our kindred and neighbours, passed over to Barbary, and the place where
we took up our abode was Algiers, much the same as if we had taken it up
in hell itself. The king heard of my beauty, and report told him of my
wealth, which was in some degree fortunate for me. He summoned me before
him, and asked me what part of Spain I came from, and what money and
jewels I had. I mentioned the place, and told him the jewels and money
were buried there; but that they might easily be recovered if I myself
went back for them. All this I told him, in dread lest my beauty and not
his own covetousness should influence him. While he was engaged in
conversation with me, they brought him word that in company with me was
one of the handsomest and most graceful youths that could be imagined. I
knew at once that they were speaking of Don Gaspar Gregorio, whose
comeliness surpasses the most highly vaunted beauty. I was troubled when
I thought of the danger he was in, for among those barbarous Turks a fair
youth is more esteemed than a woman, be she ever so beautiful. The king
immediately ordered him to be brought before him that he might see him,
and asked me if what they said about the youth was true. I then, almost
as if inspired by heaven, told him it was, but that I would have him to
know it was not a man, but a woman like myself, and I entreated him to
allow me to go and dress her in the attire proper to her, so that her
beauty might be seen to perfection, and that she might present herself
before him with less embarrassment. He bade me go by all means, and said
that the next day we should discuss the plan to be adopted for my return
to Spain to carry away the hidden treasure. I saw Don Gaspar, I told him
the danger he was in if he let it be seen he was a man, I dressed him as
a Moorish woman, and that same afternoon I brought him before the king,
who was charmed when he saw him, and resolved to keep the damsel and make
a present of her to the Grand Signor; and to avoid the risk she might run
among the women of his seraglio, and distrustful of himself, he commanded
her to be placed in the house of some Moorish ladies of rank who would
protect and attend to her; and thither he was taken at once. What we both
suffered (for I cannot deny that I love him) may be left to the
imagination of those who are separated if they love one another dearly.
The king then arranged that I should return to Spain in this brigantine,
and that two Turks, those who killed your soldiers, should accompany me.
There also came with me this Spanish renegade"--and here she pointed to
him who had first spoken--"whom I know to be secretly a Christian, and to
be more desirous of being left in Spain than of returning to Barbary. The
rest of the crew of the brigantine are Moors and Turks, who merely serve
as rowers. The two Turks, greedy and insolent, instead of obeying the
orders we had to land me and this renegade in Christian dress (with which
we came provided) on the first Spanish ground we came to, chose to run
along the coast and make some prize if they could, fearing that if they
put us ashore first, we might, in case of some accident befalling us,
make it known that the brigantine was at sea, and thus, if there happened
to be any galleys on the coast, they might be taken. We sighted this
shore last night, and knowing nothing of these galleys, we were
discovered, and the result was what you have seen. To sum up, there is
Don Gregorio in woman's dress, among women, in imminent danger of his
life; and here am I, with hands bound, in expectation, or rather in
dread, of losing my life, of which I am already weary. Here, sirs, ends
my sad story, as true as it is unhappy; all I ask of you is to allow me
to die like a Christian, for, as I have already said, I am not to be
charged with the offence of which those of my nation are guilty;" and she
stood silent, her eyes filled with moving tears, accompanied by plenty
from the bystanders. The viceroy, touched with compassion, went up to her
without speaking and untied the cord that bound the hands of the Moorish
girl.
But all the while the Morisco Christian was telling her strange story, an
elderly pilgrim, who had come on board of the galley at the same time as
the viceroy, kept his eyes fixed upon her; and the instant she ceased
speaking he threw himself at her feet, and embracing them said in a voice
broken by sobs and sighs, "O Ana Felix, my unhappy daughter, I am thy
father Ricote, come back to look for thee, unable to live without thee,
my soul that thou art!"
At these words of his, Sancho opened his eyes and raised his head, which
he had been holding down, brooding over his unlucky excursion; and
looking at the pilgrim he recognised in him that same Ricote he met the
day he quitted his government, and felt satisfied that this was his
daughter. She being now unbound embraced her father, mingling her tears
with his, while he addressing the general and the viceroy said, "This,
sirs, is my daughter, more unhappy in her adventures than in her name.
She is Ana Felix, surnamed Ricote, celebrated as much for her own beauty
as for my wealth. I quitted my native land in search of some shelter or
refuge for us abroad, and having found one in Germany I returned in this
pilgrim's dress, in the company of some other German pilgrims, to seek my
daughter and take up a large quantity of treasure I had left buried. My
daughter I did not find, the treasure I found and have with me; and now,
in this strange roundabout way you have seen, I find the treasure that
more than all makes me rich, my beloved daughter. If our innocence and
her tears and mine can with strict justice open the door to clemency,
extend it to us, for we never had any intention of injuring you, nor do
we sympathise with the aims of our people, who have been justly
banished."
"I know Ricote well," said Sancho at this, "and I know too that what he
says about Ana Felix being his daughter is true; but as to those other
particulars about going and coming, and having good or bad intentions, I
say nothing."
While all present stood amazed at this strange occurrence the general
said, "At any rate your tears will not allow me to keep my oath; live,
fair Ana Felix, all the years that heaven has allotted you; but these
rash insolent fellows must pay the penalty of the crime they have
committed;" and with that he gave orders to have the two Turks who had
killed his two soldiers hanged at once at the yard-arm. The viceroy,
however, begged him earnestly not to hang them, as their behaviour
savoured rather of madness than of bravado. The general yielded to the
viceroy's request, for revenge is not easily taken in cold blood. They
then tried to devise some scheme for rescuing Don Gaspar Gregorio from
the danger in which he had been left. Ricote offered for that object more
than two thousand ducats that he had in pearls and gems; they proposed
several plans, but none so good as that suggested by the renegade already
mentioned, who offered to return to Algiers in a small vessel of about
six banks, manned by Christian rowers, as he knew where, how, and when he
could and should land, nor was he ignorant of the house in which Don
Gaspar was staying. The general and the viceroy had some hesitation about
placing confidence in the renegade and entrusting him with the Christians
who were to row, but Ana Felix said she could answer for him, and her
father offered to go and pay the ransom of the Christians if by any
chance they should not be forthcoming. This, then, being agreed upon, the
viceroy landed, and Don Antonio Moreno took the fair Morisco and her
father home with him, the viceroy charging him to give them the best
reception and welcome in his power, while on his own part he offered all
that house contained for their entertainment; so great was the good-will
and kindliness the beauty of Ana Felix had infused into his heart.
CHAPTER LXIV.
TREATING OF THE ADVENTURE WHICH GAVE DON QUIXOTE MORE UNHAPPINESS THAN
ALL THAT HAD HITHERTO BEFALLEN HIM
The wife of Don Antonio Moreno, so the history says, was extremely happy
to see Ana Felix in her house. She welcomed her with great kindness,
charmed as well by her beauty as by her intelligence; for in both
respects the fair Morisco was richly endowed, and all the people of the
city flocked to see her as though they had been summoned by the ringing
of the bells.
Don Quixote told Don Antonio that the plan adopted for releasing Don
Gregorio was not a good one, for its risks were greater than its
advantages, and that it would be better to land himself with his arms and
horse in Barbary; for he would carry him off in spite of the whole
Moorish host, as Don Gaiferos carried off his wife Melisendra.
"Remember, your worship," observed Sancho on hearing him say so, "Senor
Don Gaiferos carried off his wife from the mainland, and took her to
France by land; but in this case, if by chance we carry off Don Gregorio,
we have no way of bringing him to Spain, for there's the sea between."
"There's a remedy for everything except death," said Don Quixote; "if
they bring the vessel close to the shore we shall be able to get on board
though all the world strive to prevent us."
"Your worship hits it off mighty well and mighty easy," said Sancho; "but
'it's a long step from saying to doing;' and I hold to the renegade, for
he seems to me an honest good-hearted fellow."
Don Antonio then said that if the renegade did not prove successful, the
expedient of the great Don Quixote's expedition to Barbary should be
adopted. Two days afterwards the renegade put to sea in a light vessel of
six oars a-side manned by a stout crew, and two days later the galleys
made sail eastward, the general having begged the viceroy to let him know
all about the release of Don Gregorio and about Ana Felix, and the
viceroy promised to do as he requested.
One morning as Don Quixote went out for a stroll along the beach, arrayed
in full armour (for, as he often said, that was "his only gear, his only
rest the fray," and he never was without it for a moment), he saw coming
towards him a knight, also in full armour, with a shining moon painted on
his shield, who, on approaching sufficiently near to be heard, said in a
loud voice, addressing himself to Don Quixote, "Illustrious knight, and
never sufficiently extolled Don Quixote of La Mancha, I am the Knight of
the White Moon, whose unheard-of achievements will perhaps have recalled
him to thy memory. I come to do battle with thee and prove the might of
thy arm, to the end that I make thee acknowledge and confess that my
lady, let her be who she may, is incomparably fairer than thy Dulcinea
del Toboso. If thou dost acknowledge this fairly and openly, thou shalt
escape death and save me the trouble of inflicting it upon thee; if thou
fightest and I vanquish thee, I demand no other satisfaction than that,
laying aside arms and abstaining from going in quest of adventures, thou
withdraw and betake thyself to thine own village for the space of a year,
and live there without putting hand to sword, in peace and quiet and
beneficial repose, the same being needful for the increase of thy
substance and the salvation of thy soul; and if thou dost vanquish me, my
head shall be at thy disposal, my arms and horse thy spoils, and the
renown of my deeds transferred and added to thine. Consider which will be
thy best course, and give me thy answer speedily, for this day is all the
time I have for the despatch of this business."
Don Quixote was amazed and astonished, as well at the Knight of the White
Moon's arrogance, as at his reason for delivering the defiance, and with
calm dignity he answered him, "Knight of the White Moon, of whose
achievements I have never heard until now, I will venture to swear you
have never seen the illustrious Dulcinea; for had you seen her I know you
would have taken care not to venture yourself upon this issue, because
the sight would have removed all doubt from your mind that there ever has
been or can be a beauty to be compared with hers; and so, not saying you
lie, but merely that you are not correct in what you state, I accept your
challenge, with the conditions you have proposed, and at once, that the
day you have fixed may not expire; and from your conditions I except only
that of the renown of your achievements being transferred to me, for I
know not of what sort they are nor what they may amount to; I am
satisfied with my own, such as they be. Take, therefore, the side of the
field you choose, and I will do the same; and to whom God shall give it
may Saint Peter add his blessing."
The Knight of the White Moon had been seen from the city, and it was told
the viceroy how he was in conversation with Don Quixote. The viceroy,
fancying it must be some fresh adventure got up by Don Antonio Moreno or
some other gentleman of the city, hurried out at once to the beach
accompanied by Don Antonio and several other gentlemen, just as Don
Quixote was wheeling Rocinante round in order to take up the necessary
distance. The viceroy upon this, seeing that the pair of them were
evidently preparing to come to the charge, put himself between them,
asking them what it was that led them to engage in combat all of a sudden
in this way. The Knight of the White Moon replied that it was a question
of precedence of beauty; and briefly told him what he had said to Don
Quixote, and how the conditions of the defiance agreed upon on both sides
had been accepted. The viceroy went over to Don Antonio, and asked in a
low voice did he know who the Knight of the White Moon was, or was it
some joke they were playing on Don Quixote. Don Antonio replied that he
neither knew who he was nor whether the defiance was in joke or in
earnest. This answer left the viceroy in a state of perplexity, not
knowing whether he ought to let the combat go on or not; but unable to
persuade himself that it was anything but a joke he fell back, saying,
"If there be no other way out of it, gallant knights, except to confess
or die, and Don Quixote is inflexible, and your worship of the White Moon
still more so, in God's hand be it, and fall on."
He of the White Moon thanked the viceroy in courteous and well-chosen
words for the permission he gave them, and so did Don Quixote, who then,
commending himself with all his heart to heaven and to his Dulcinea, as
was his custom on the eve of any combat that awaited him, proceeded to
take a little more distance, as he saw his antagonist was doing the same;
then, without blast of trumpet or other warlike instrument to give them
the signal to charge, both at the same instant wheeled their horses; and
he of the White Moon, being the swifter, met Don Quixote after having
traversed two-thirds of the course, and there encountered him with such
violence that, without touching him with his lance (for he held it high,
to all appearance purposely), he hurled Don Quixote and Rocinante to the
earth, a perilous fall. He sprang upon him at once, and placing the lance
over his visor said to him, "You are vanquished, sir knight, nay dead
unless you admit the conditions of our defiance."
Don Quixote, bruised and stupefied, without raising his visor said in a
weak feeble voice as if he were speaking out of a tomb, "Dulcinea del
Toboso is the fairest woman in the world, and I the most unfortunate
knight on earth; it is not fitting that this truth should suffer by my
feebleness; drive your lance home, sir knight, and take my life, since
you have taken away my honour."
"That will I not, in sooth," said he of the White Moon; "live the fame of
the lady Dulcinea's beauty undimmed as ever; all I require is that the
great Don Quixote retire to his own home for a year, or for so long a
time as shall by me be enjoined upon him, as we agreed before engaging in
this combat."
The viceroy, Don Antonio, and several others who were present heard all
this, and heard too how Don Quixote replied that so long as nothing in
prejudice of Dulcinea was demanded of him, he would observe all the rest
like a true and loyal knight. The engagement given, he of the White Moon
wheeled about, and making obeisance to the viceroy with a movement of the
head, rode away into the city at a half gallop. The viceroy bade Don
Antonio hasten after him, and by some means or other find out who he was.
They raised Don Quixote up and uncovered his face, and found him pale and
bathed with sweat.
Rocinante from the mere hard measure he had received lay unable to stir
for the present. Sancho, wholly dejected and woebegone, knew not what to
say or do. He fancied that all was a dream, that the whole business was a
piece of enchantment. Here was his master defeated, and bound not to take
up arms for a year. He saw the light of the glory of his achievements
obscured; the hopes of the promises lately made him swept away like smoke
before the wind; Rocinante, he feared, was crippled for life, and his
master's bones out of joint; for if he were only shaken out of his
madness it would be no small luck. In the end they carried him into the
city in a hand-chair which the viceroy sent for, and thither the viceroy
himself returned, cager to ascertain who this Knight of the White Moon
was who had left Don Quixote in such a sad plight.
CHAPTER LXV.
WHEREIN IS MADE KNOWN WHO THE KNIGHT OF THE WHITE MOON WAS; LIKEWISE DON
GREGORIO'S RELEASE, AND OTHER EVENTS
Don Antonia Moreno followed the Knight of the White Moon, and a number of
boys followed him too, nay pursued him, until they had him fairly housed
in a hostel in the heart of the city. Don Antonio, eager to make his
acquaintance, entered also; a squire came out to meet him and remove his
armour, and he shut himself into a lower room, still attended by Don
Antonio, whose bread would not bake until he had found out who he was. He
of the White Moon, seeing then that the gentleman would not leave him,
said, "I know very well, senor, what you have come for; it is to find out
who I am; and as there is no reason why I should conceal it from you,
while my servant here is taking off my armour I will tell you the true
state of the case, without leaving out anything. You must know, senor,
that I am called the bachelor Samson Carrasco. I am of the same village
as Don Quixote of La Mancha, whose craze and folly make all of us who
know him feel pity for him, and I am one of those who have felt it most;
and persuaded that his chance of recovery lay in quiet and keeping at
home and in his own house, I hit upon a device for keeping him there.
Three months ago, therefore, I went out to meet him as a knight-errant,
under the assumed name of the Knight of the Mirrors, intending to engage
him in combat and overcome him without hurting him, making it the
condition of our combat that the vanquished should be at the disposal of
the victor. What I meant to demand of him (for I regarded him as
vanquished already) was that he should return to his own village, and not
leave it for a whole year, by which time he might be cured. But fate
ordered it otherwise, for he vanquished me and unhorsed me, and so my
plan failed. He went his way, and I came back conquered, covered with
shame, and sorely bruised by my fall, which was a particularly dangerous
one. But this did not quench my desire to meet him again and overcome
him, as you have seen to-day. And as he is so scrupulous in his
observance of the laws of knight-errantry, he will, no doubt, in order to
keep his word, obey the injunction I have laid upon him. This, senor, is
how the matter stands, and I have nothing more to tell you. I implore of
you not to betray me, or tell Don Quixote who I am; so that my honest
endeavours may be successful, and that a man of excellent wits--were he
only rid of the fooleries of chivalry--may get them back again."
"O senor," said Don Antonio, "may God forgive you the wrong you have done
the whole world in trying to bring the most amusing madman in it back to
his senses. Do you not see, senor, that the gain by Don Quixote's sanity
can never equal the enjoyment his crazes give? But my belief is that all
the senor bachelor's pains will be of no avail to bring a man so
hopelessly cracked to his senses again; and if it were not uncharitable,
I would say may Don Quixote never be cured, for by his recovery we lose
not only his own drolleries, but his squire Sancho Panza's too, any one
of which is enough to turn melancholy itself into merriment. However,
I'll hold my peace and say nothing to him, and we'll see whether I am
right in my suspicion that Senor Carrasco's efforts will be fruitless."
The bachelor replied that at all events the affair promised well, and he
hoped for a happy result from it; and putting his services at Don
Antonio's commands he took his leave of him; and having had his armour
packed at once upon a mule, he rode away from the city the same day on
the horse he rode to battle, and returned to his own country without
meeting any adventure calling for record in this veracious history.
Don Antonio reported to the viceroy what Carrasco told him, and the
viceroy was not very well pleased to hear it, for with Don Quixote's
retirement there was an end to the amusement of all who knew anything of
his mad doings.
Six days did Don Quixote keep his bed, dejected, melancholy, moody and
out of sorts, brooding over the unhappy event of his defeat. Sancho
strove to comfort him, and among other things he said to him, "Hold up
your head, senor, and be of good cheer if you can, and give thanks to
heaven that if you have had a tumble to the ground you have not come off
with a broken rib; and, as you know that 'where they give they take,' and
that 'there are not always fletches where there are pegs,' a fig for the
doctor, for there's no need of him to cure this ailment. Let us go home,
and give over going about in search of adventures in strange lands and
places; rightly looked at, it is I that am the greater loser, though it
is your worship that has had the worse usage. With the government I gave
up all wish to be a governor again, but I did not give up all longing to
be a count; and that will never come to pass if your worship gives up
becoming a king by renouncing the calling of chivalry; and so my hopes
are going to turn into smoke."
"Peace, Sancho," said Don Quixote; "thou seest my suspension and
retirement is not to exceed a year; I shall soon return to my honoured
calling, and I shall not be at a loss for a kingdom to win and a county
to bestow on thee."
"May God hear it and sin be deaf," said Sancho; "I have always heard say
that 'a good hope is better than a bad holding."
As they were talking Don Antonio came in looking extremely pleased and
exclaiming, "Reward me for my good news, Senor Don Quixote! Don Gregorio
and the renegade who went for him have come ashore--ashore do I say? They
are by this time in the viceroy's house, and will be here immediately."
Don Quixote cheered up a little and said, "Of a truth I am almost ready
to say I should have been glad had it turned out just the other way, for
it would have obliged me to cross over to Barbary, where by the might of
my arm I should have restored to liberty, not only Don Gregorio, but all
the Christian captives there are in Barbary. But what am I saying,
miserable being that I am? Am I not he that has been conquered? Am I not
he that has been overthrown? Am I not he who must not take up arms for a
year? Then what am I making professions for; what am I bragging about;
when it is fitter for me to handle the distaff than the sword?"
"No more of that, senor," said Sancho; "'let the hen live, even though it
be with her pip; 'today for thee and to-morrow for me;' in these affairs
of encounters and whacks one must not mind them, for he that falls to-day
may get up to-morrow; unless indeed he chooses to lie in bed, I mean
gives way to weakness and does not pluck up fresh spirit for fresh
battles; let your worship get up now to receive Don Gregorio; for the
household seems to be in a bustle, and no doubt he has come by this
time;" and so it proved, for as soon as Don Gregorio and the renegade had
given the viceroy an account of the voyage out and home, Don Gregorio,
eager to see Ana Felix, came with the renegade to Don Antonio's house.
When they carried him away from Algiers he was in woman's dress; on board
the vessel, however, he exchanged it for that of a captive who escaped
with him; but in whatever dress he might be he looked like one to be
loved and served and esteemed, for he was surpassingly well-favoured, and
to judge by appearances some seventeen or eighteen years of age. Ricote
and his daughter came out to welcome him, the father with tears, the
daughter with bashfulness. They did not embrace each other, for where
there is deep love there will never be overmuch boldness. Seen side by
side, the comeliness of Don Gregorio and the beauty of Ana Felix were the
admiration of all who were present. It was silence that spoke for the
lovers at that moment, and their eyes were the tongues that declared
their pure and happy feelings. The renegade explained the measures and
means he had adopted to rescue Don Gregorio, and Don Gregorio at no great
length, but in a few words, in which he showed that his intelligence was
in advance of his years, described the peril and embarrassment he found
himself in among the women with whom he had sojourned. To conclude,
Ricote liberally recompensed and rewarded as well the renegade as the men
who had rowed; and the renegade effected his readmission into the body of
the Church and was reconciled with it, and from a rotten limb became by
penance and repentance a clean and sound one.
Two days later the viceroy discussed with Don Antonio the steps they
should take to enable Ana Felix and her father to stay in Spain, for it
seemed to them there could be no objection to a daughter who was so good
a Christian and a father to all appearance so well disposed remaining
there. Don Antonio offered to arrange the matter at the capital, whither
he was compelled to go on some other business, hinting that many a
difficult affair was settled there with the help of favour and bribes.
"Nay," said Ricote, who was present during the conversation, "it will not
do to rely upon favour or bribes, because with the great Don Bernardino
de Velasco, Conde de Salazar, to whom his Majesty has entrusted our
expulsion, neither entreaties nor promises, bribes nor appeals to
compassion, are of any use; for though it is true he mingles mercy with
justice, still, seeing that the whole body of our nation is tainted and
corrupt, he applies to it the cautery that burns rather than the salve
that soothes; and thus, by prudence, sagacity, care and the fear he
inspires, he has borne on his mighty shoulders the weight of this great
policy and carried it into effect, all our schemes and plots,
importunities and wiles, being ineffectual to blind his Argus eyes, ever
on the watch lest one of us should remain behind in concealment, and like
a hidden root come in course of time to sprout and bear poisonous fruit
in Spain, now cleansed, and relieved of the fear in which our vast
numbers kept it. Heroic resolve of the great Philip the Third, and
unparalleled wisdom to have entrusted it to the said Don Bernardino de
Velasco!"
"At any rate," said Don Antonio, "when I am there I will make all
possible efforts, and let heaven do as pleases it best; Don Gregorio will
come with me to relieve the anxiety which his parents must be suffering
on account of his absence; Ana Felix will remain in my house with my
wife, or in a monastery; and I know the viceroy will be glad that the
worthy Ricote should stay with him until we see what terms I can make."
The viceroy agreed to all that was proposed; but Don Gregorio on learning
what had passed declared he could not and would not on any account leave
Ana Felix; however, as it was his purpose to go and see his parents and
devise some way of returning for her, he fell in with the proposed
arrangement. Ana Felix remained with Don Antonio's wife, and Ricote in
the viceroy's house.
The day for Don Antonio's departure came; and two days later that for Don
Quixote's and Sancho's, for Don Quixote's fall did not suffer him to take
the road sooner. There were tears and sighs, swoonings and sobs, at the
parting between Don Gregorio and Ana Felix. Ricote offered Don Gregorio a
thousand crowns if he would have them, but he would not take any save
five which Don Antonio lent him and he promised to repay at the capital.
So the two of them took their departure, and Don Quixote and Sancho
afterwards, as has been already said, Don Quixote without his armour and
in travelling gear, and Sancho on foot, Dapple being loaded with the
armour.
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